


I Didn't Know I Was Lost

by Melodious329



Series: Sometimes A Shadow Wins [2]
Category: Angel: the Series RPF, Kane (Band), Leverage RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 03:31:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melodious329/pseuds/Melodious329
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of Sometimes a Shadow Wins, Christian has a lot to deal with: injuries, panic attacks, the questions of investigators, the concerns of his friends and family.  He begins spending time with FBI agent Jeffery Dean Morgan, while Steve tries to make amends.  In the end, a lot of things have to change, but who will Christian choose to spend the future with?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Didn't Know I Was Lost

**Author's Note:**

> I do not have a medical degree and in some cases, I have blatantly ignored things in favor of my story.

Christian lies against the bright white of the sheets of the hospital bed, motionless except for the rise and fall of his chest, air pushed in and out of his lungs by the machine whirring to his left.  His skin is pale where it’s not mottled with bruises and he looks small amidst the machines.  The peace of the scene is broken suddenly when his eyes suddenly begin to flutter.  The tube pulls against his lips as he tries to jerk his face away, his breath stuttering as he fights the machines.

Panic seems to run through his body like an electric shock and as he arches his back, pulling against the confinement of the tubes, trying to breathe even as the alarms begin to squeal.  Suddenly the previously empty room is filled with people rushing in through the sliding door.  Two nurses push him down by the shoulders, but he only fights harder having a foe to fight against.  Terrified blue eyes finally open, blinking up at them even as a nurse injects something into his IV port.  Slowly he goes limp, the terror never leaving his face until his head is lolling helplessly, chestnut hair spread wild over his pillow. 

*************************

When next dark eyelashes flutter on his cheeks, Christian is in a regular hospital room, with muted colors and fading sunlight filtering through the blinds on the window.  He’d look asleep except for the tube still taped to his mouth.  His momma and Daddy look on his struggle with consciousness with intent concentration, his momma’s hand slowly strokes his bruised forearm down to the white bandage around his wrist.   

“C’mon, open your eyes.  That’s it,” his momma murmurs encouragingly. 

Blue eyes open to slits and he grimaces as pain filters into the forefront.  It takes a long moment before he manages to focus enough to look at his momma’s face leaning over him.  His left eye is red, bruise running from the corner of his eye down his cheekbone. 

“There you are,” she says thickly.  “Don’t try to talk,” she admonishes before he can even consider it.

Blinking slowly, his tongue moves instinctively against the tube in his mouth.  The dull color of his eyes shows his exhaustion, focused blankly on the tears that his momma tries to wipe away as they spill over onto her cheeks.  Her hands fuss with the blankets over his chest for a moment, before she takes his hand where it lies posed on top of his belly.    

“Well, look who’s awake,” the doctor barks, too busy looking down at a table to notice the way that Christian flinches, though the response is sluggish from the drugs.  The doctor only looks up as he hands off the tablet to the nurse.  The man is about as old as Christian’s Dad and twice as patronizing.  “Why don’t your parents leave for a moment so we can chat?” he says with a fake smile curving his lips.

Christian gathers himself enough to glare at the man deigning to pretend like he gives a shit about Christian’s feelings on the matter.  He moves a little restlessly, wanting to sit up some so that he’s not at so much of a disadvantage with this asshole, but his momma is staring at him with wet eyes.  She pats his arm again before allowing his father to lead her from the room.

“Alright,” the doctor says turning back to Christian.  “You have a breathing tube in right now, but I want to ask you a few questions.  I want you to squeeze my hand once for no and twice for yes.  Can you do that?” the doctor questions, too cheerful, his hand cold where it’s slipped into Christian’s stiffly curled fingers. 

It takes Christian a moment to realize that’s a question and then his hand only twitches before he manages to squeeze once, twice.

“That’s great.  Do you remember what happened to you?” the doctor asks, still cheerful. 

Christian’s eyes narrow, his eyebrows bunching as he tries to take a sharp breath, but he finds he can’t.  His body goes stiff and blue eyes wide as he’s choking again.  His body twitches, arching once before the doctor places his hand on his forehead.  Christian’s eyes snap into focus, staring at the man above him.

“Hey there, none of that,” the doctor chastises cheerily like he’s speaking to a dog.  “Just let the machine do the work.” 

Christian’s body is stiff as a board on the bed, but he can breathe a little.  Pain that had felt muted and faraway starts burning like a fire along his veins, intimate and immediate.  Slowly, Christian squeezes the doctor’s hand twice trying to convince the man that he’s fine. 

“Good, good,” the doctor says as he straightens up.  “Alright, let me tell you about your progress.  You’ve been in the ICU for about a day and a half, but your oxygen saturation and arterial blood gases have been improving.  Maybe tomorrow, we’ll take out that breathing tube and the feeding tube, and see how that goes,” the doctor says, smiling like he’s giving a dog a treat. 

“Other than that, you’ve received a few stitches for the lacerations in your wrists and have some deep bruising, but no other major injuries to worry about.  Do you have any questions?” the doctor asks like he’s already moving onto the next patient. 

Christian only squeezes once and then lets his head roll on the pillow, turning his face away as much as he can.  Heavy lids blink down and he works his throat again.  Bone deep bruises are coming to life all over his body and there are sharper pains in his neck and wrists.  Despite the pain, his exhaustion is like a heavy weight on him as he closes his eyes.

It seems only a second later, he feels a touch.  His momma leans over him, brushing the hair off his pale face.  “I do wish you’d get a haircut,” she says, biting her lip just like he does as she stares down at him, eyes lingering on the bruises.  “Your friends want to come see you, but I think it’s best that they wait until you’re off the ventilator, don’t you, sweetheart?”

She phrases it as a question though he has no way to answer her.  No desire to either.  Her hand hovers momentarily over the strip of white across his throat just under his chin.  The dark purple bruises creep out from the bandage and up his jawline like wisps of smoke. 

The next two times he wakes, the room is dark and there’s a nurse above him, but he’s back asleep so fast that it’s like a dream.  When he wakes in the morning, his blinds are open and the sun seems to pierce his brain like he has the worst hangover and his throat is dry.  His hands claw at the blanket before he tries to lift them to his face.  His mother stops him before they make contact, pressing his hands back down into the bed.  He frowns, his hair is itchy.      

The doctor is still cheerful as he sets it up to remove the tubes, letting the nurse position the bed so he’s more sitting than lying down.  He can do nothing but fist his hands in the blankets on his abdomen and lift scared blue eyes up to the man’s lined face as the tube is pulled.  It burns coming out and Christian can’t help the tears that spill from his clenched shut eyes over his bruised cheeks.  It takes him a long moment to blink them away, but when he finally opens his eyes, his attention isn’t on the doctor’s face.  Behind the doctor, standing in the doorway is Steve. 

“Holy fucking Christ,” Steve says in a whisper that’s like a roar, his horrified blue eyes intense against the room’s pale colors.   

Christian closes his eyes against the sight and then turns his face on the blanket, taking advantage of his increased mobility without the tube.  He grimaces at the unexpected pull on his abused neck and then opens his eyes, frowning, his cheeks still wet, as he focuses on the doctor still flitting around being a nuisance. 

“How is that?” the doctor asks. 

Slowly, Christian tries to swallow, watery blue eyes looking up at the doctor as if pleading for leniency.  It feels like broken glass in there and his face shows his pain in stark detail.  He flinches again at a presence over his shoulder, but it’s just his momma trying to give him a piece of ice from a plastic spoon.  It doesn’t make his throat feel any better, but does feel nice on his tongue.  His throat has come alive with pain, but he forces himself to speak. 

“F-fine,” he chokes out and immediately, his face scrunches up to cough again. 

Coughing feels like being stabbed so he holds his breath, trying to make it stop despite how it burns and tickles in his throat.  His whole body goes stiff on the bed as his face is scrunched with pain and his hands have a death grip on the sheets, wrenching them as if about to tear them apart. 

“Alright, now, just breathe,” the doctor says and Christian gives him a weak glare.  

Christian sucks in a tiny breath through pursed lips and tries to unclench his hands. His muscles seem frozen and tight.  Everything seems to burn with pain, but Christian bites back any sounds of complaint because everyone is looking at him. 

Everyone is looking at him except for the doctor.  The man in the white coat is looking at a clipboard as he comments, “Things look good.  I’ll leave you to get used to things and be back in a while.”  And then he turns to go with barely a glance at the ever present nurse. 

Christian feels a firm grip on his bicep and looks over to see that Steve has moved over to the other side of the bed now that the doctor has moved.  He’s surprised to see Jensen there beside him, both of them staring down at him with horrified expressions, their eyes flitting around the visible bruises, the tubing.  Christian looks away quickly, feeling naked and pathetic. 

Shifting uncomfortably, Christian tries to push himself up the bed but his wrists just give out on him and he gasps in pain.  He cradles his hands to his chest, feeling a hand on his shoulder that he ignores.  He doesn’t want to see their pity.  Instead, he simply leans back and closes his eyes, trying to be satisfied with his position as he lifts an arm up to the tube underneath his nose. 

He can tell that it’s Steve’s hand that pushes his own away from the equipment.  “You scared the shit out of us,” Steve breathes out, but Christian just drops his hand back to his lap, not wanting the intimacy.

“Are you alright?” Jensen asks. 

Christian opens his eyes at the other man’s voice, having almost forgotten him.  He blinks up at his friends and the looks over at his parents and tries to give them a smile despite that it pulls the bruise on the left side of his face.  “I’m okay,” he whispers. 

His voice sounds as painful as it is, but the effort still makes his momma smile at little as she grabs at his hand again.  He leans his head back against the pillow, his eyes closing again.  He doesn’t see a new visitor coming in, only hears the clacking of expensive shoes on the linoleum.

“Jeffrey,” his momma cries, abandoning her seat as she takes the stranger’s arm, pulling him further into the room.  “We were looking for you.  I thought you’d left before we could thank you.”

Christian is frowning in confusion as he opens his eyes to look at the man.  Jeffrey is older, fine streaks of grey in his dark hair and short beard, but he’s still very attractive, well-built and capable.  He towers over Christian’s momma while smiling charmingly, showing off deep dimples and warm dark eyes.  They look…familiar. 

“Chris,” his momma says, pulling him from his reverie.  “Chris, this is Jeffrey, the FBI agent who saved your life,” she says, looking up at the taller man with tears in her eyes again. 

Christian feels insignificant in that instant, not knowing what to say to that man who saved him because then he’d have to admit how afraid he was.  But the dark eyes don’t look at him with pity.  They meet his eyes directly when he says, “Christian saved himself, ma’am.”

Startled, Christian’s mouth drops open with a small involuntary sound and Steve’s hand tightens on his shoulder.  But the man doesn’t stare at him, only casually turns back to his momma.  “Would it be alright if I spoke to Christian myself, ma’am?”

“Oh, of course,” she said immediately, already collecting his father by an elbow. 

Steve stays a moment longer, his hand still on Christian’s shoulder like an unspoken objection.  Christian doesn’t look up at him, though he feels a cold frisson of fear at the idea of being left alone with a stranger.  But he won’t admit it so he keeps his eyes on his hands folded over the blanket.  Finally Steve lets Jensen pull him away, going out the door with a last look back at the same time as another man in a suit enters. 

This new man is younger with longer light brown hair tied back in a ponytail, pieces around his face tucked behind his ears.  He smiles politely at Christian’s exiting friends and family, but he’s stiff if handsome.  His eyes are uninterested as they sweep the room before even glancing at Christian.    

Christian feels even more uncomfortable outnumbered, but his attention is soon focused on Jeffrey who is casual as he sits.  He sits close, acting familiar and warm, but Christian can feel his heartrate increasing in anxiety without needing the sound of the monitor. 

“Easy now,” the man says, his voice gruff like a smoker.  It should be patronizing but there’s a hint of a teasing smile on his face, almost flirtatious.  “We’ve met before but you probably don’t remember.”

“No, I’m…sorry,” Christian croaks out.  His pathetic attempt at speech has the man’s big hand coming up to squeeze his forearm as if an unspoken admonishment to be quiet. 

“I’m Jeff and this is my partner Quinn,” he introduces, gesturing at the other man.  “We’re FBI agents,” he lifts up his badge as if he had it at the ready.  “We were there when you were found.”

Found sounds vague and polite like he was a kid lost in a Walmart but Christian focuses on the first part of the statement.  “FBI?” he asks. 

He must’ve been trying to talk too fast because soon he’s coughing again and rending the bedsheet.  His eyes water again and he wipes the moisture away with his free hand to see a cup of water entering his sight line. 

“Thanks,” he whispers hoarsely as he takes the water. 

“Alright, stop talking,” Jeff tells him, but the order is given with humor.  “You just listen for a minute,” he says as his younger partner comes to stand behind him.  “We were called in to assist the police investigation of several murders that were very similar.  In each case, their friends reported that the victims had all complained of being stalked in the days beforehand.”

“They’re dead?” Christian asks, his breath coming quicker, his hands pushing at the bedding underneath him as if trying to get away. 

“Yes, they…” Jeff answers with concern etched in the lines of his face, already leaning closer.

“How many?” Christian interrupts.  His hand feels clumsy as he bangs it against his mouth, trying to stifle any sounds. 

“We’re still looking into it,” Jeff whispers, suddenly leaning even closer.  His hand is on Christian’s forearm, sliding further up.    

Christian shakes his head and pulls away from the attempted hug.  The agent is nice and probably well-trained to provide comfort to victims, but he’s not a victim.  He’s the lucky one, the one that _survived_. 

“Fine,” he chokes out.  “Sorry.  You don’t…”

Christian stops, not having anything else to say.  But Jeff seems to get the hint and gives him a little room, large hand sliding back down to cover Christian’s own hand still clenching on the bed sheets.  Wiping his eyes with his other hand that feels swollen, or maybe that’s his face, Christian bites his lip against the emotions hurting his throat.    

“It’s ok,” Jeff says, still too close as he stares into blue eyes are bright with unshed tears.  “You’ve been through hell.  We’ve been piecing together the timeline, but once you’re up for it, we’d like to talk to you again about what you remember.”

“Is he dead?” Christian asks, changing the subject.  His lips are ruddy with emotion and trembling in anticipation of the answer.

“You really need to stop talking,” Jeff admonishes softly before he takes a big breath, delaying his answer.  “Yes, the man responsible for kidnapping you and killing the other men is dead.”

The tears spill over dark lashes then and onto ruddy cheeks as Christian stares at the pale wall behind the agent’s head.  Jeff’s hands move to rub warmth into the bare skin on Christian’s biceps. 

“Hey, hey,” Jeff comforts, his face close again, but this time Christian doesn’t pull away, doesn’t seem to even notice the other man.  “You were so brave, so brave.  You did what you had to, you _survived_ , Christian.  I know it’s hard…”

Christian pulls away with a sudden gasp then, stiff and his eyes focusing on his hands as they settle in his lap.  “Are we done?” he asks, still not moving to wipe away the tears spilling down his cheeks. 

Jeff’s dark eyes scour Christian’s blank face and then his thumbs are wiping away the wet trails on an unblemished cheek.  “Sure.  We can talk again once you get out of here.  Just take a minute.”

Pulling back, Jeff seems surprised by his own action.  Standing up slowly as if to go and give the man some privacy, instead Jeff pushes the younger man back against the inclined bed.  His partner, Quinn moves away, crossing one arm over his chest with the other toying with his bottom lip in thought.  Jeff doesn’t look at him, just continues staring down, his eyes intent on the injured man.  Christian only closes his eyes, another tear escaping the fringes of his lashes as a shuddered breath escaping dry lips. 

“Give yourself time to not be ok,” Jeff murmurs. 

Christian keeps his eyes closed so long, he could be asleep except for the tension still throughout his muscles.  They’re surprised by a knock on the door and Jeff moves slightly away before a nurse enters the room.  She smiles apologetically, like they all do and Christian blinks and coughs a little to loosen the mucous in this chest.  His throat feels even worse afterward.

Hearing his momma’s voice getting closer, he closes his eyes again, not wanting to deal with it.  He doesn’t look up as his momma drifts back into the room, talking to the exiting FBI agents in a low voice.  His head falls further to the side.  He suddenly feels even more exhausted and just hopes that they’ll let him sleep again.    

That hope is dashed when he feels a hand grip his fingers.  Steve stares worriedly down on him, but he won’t look up lest Steve see the remnant of tears.  He hates this, hates everyone watching as if he’s broken.  Thumping his head back against the pillow, he’s frustrated that nothing is going to make his throat feel better.  He pulls his hands into fists and feels the skin pull on his left forearm. 

“When kin I get atta ‘ere?” Christian slurs the question, his voice sounding even worse. 

Steve frowns down at his friend as if the rebuke is on his lips.  “Probably not until tomorrow, they’re still checking that you’re breathing fine.”

“Jus’ bruises,” Christian grits out, waving a hand as if to wave logic away.  He can see Steve rolling his eyes, annoyed by his stubbornness and that’s good, that’s normal.  Steve’s hand twitches against his and then pulls away, stuffed into a pocket.

Christian instead leans his head back further to focus on his momma as she takes a seat back in the chair Jeff had occupied.  He gives her a small smile, despite that he still wishes they’d all just go away for a little while.  There’s a lump in his still-pained throat that’s impossible for him to swallow. 

“Here’re some magazines,” his Dad interjects, putting a small stack on Christian’s lap before reaching out to grab his ankle.  “How’re you doin’, son?” 

Christian lifts his head only momentarily as he tries to look down at the stack.  He quickly drops his head back down though, too tired to really care about the magazine.  His fingers move over them though, still feeling thick and uncoordinated as he fidgets under his father’s gaze, the gauze on his wrists crinkling painfully. 

“And no bullshit,” his Dad reprimands him preemptively. 

“Jus’ tired,” he says, looking up at his Dad and schooling his face out of the grimace that it seems stuck in. 

The magazines are immediately removed and he looks over to see his momma looking more worried.  Sighing, Christian tries to lift on arm to rub at his neck that has started to itch.  He wants to scream when Steve bats his hand down again and he clenches his eyes closed tight. 

Steve takes the hint first, probably not wanting to have to deal with him anymore, and Jensen goes right behind.  “I-we should go.  But I’ll come back tomorrow.  Be here when you get sprung,” he tries to joke. 

“You dun hafta,” Christian says before he really thinks about it.  Steve has an odd look on his face, a look he’s never seen before, somewhere between sad and angry and his lips are pursed like he actually wants to argue.  But Christian really can only barely deal with his parents, not Steve too.  He swallows painfully. 

Fortunately, his parents intervene.  “Yes, hon’, he’ll come home with us tomorrow and you can come visit there. It’ll be a hard day tomorrow,” she says, reaching out to put her hand on his as if she has no idea how embarrassing this conversation is to him. 

Steve still looks strange, frustrated and disappointed, but he finally moves away from his place at Christian’s shoulder.  “Well, I don’t want to be in the way,” he says, “but text me or something when you make it home.”  He takes Jensen with him as he leaves. 

Christian’s parents stand too, but they linger by his bedside.  His throat hurts too much to argue, but he doesn’t want his parents hovering over him. 

His momma seems to pre-empts his objection.  “The doctor said you shouldn’t be alone after you get out.  Don’t worry, sweetheart, you’ll just stay with us a few days, though we’d love to have you longer.”

His momma is already leaning over him to kiss his whiskered cheek.  “We’ll come back later.  Just get some rest without us here to distract you,” she says. 

Finally alone, Christian tries to take stock of what hurts.  He touches the bandage under his chin with hesitant fingertips and then looks down at his hands. His movements are shaky from exhaustion and pain and terror, creeping in like monsters in the shadows of his room.  His wrists are bandaged in thick white strips and his fingers still look swollen.  Slowly he turns his hands over to look at the bruised backs.  His eyes follow the line of a cut, now healing with steristrips, from the white bandage up his left forearm even as his arms starts to shudder harder.  Christian doesn’t notice, too involved in remembering the terror as the knife ran down his skin. 

Closing his eyes, Christian scrunches his face and fists his hands, squeezing for a moment before he’s pressing his knuckles into the bed.  He doesn’t know when his breathing became so labored, he feels like someone is sitting on his chest.  He knows that there are other bruises, other cuts that he can feel when he moves, but he can’t face them right now.    

There’s the sound of something knocking into the table to his left and his eyes fly open to see the same nurse from before.  She’s small and unassuming, not a threat at all, but he can’t seem to calm down.  She politely pretends not to notice, smiling at him as she holds up a tube and comes closer.   

“You feeling alright?” she asks as she ties the rubber around his arm.  Her voice cheerful, but with an edge that says she’s hoping not to have to get the doctor. 

“Yeah,” he chokes out and then looks the other way as if he just can’t stand to see the needle.  He wonders what she thinks of him, wonders if she knows why he’s here, what that man did…

Christian swallows hard, but smiles at her as she leaves the room.  He’s not even that injured.  He thought he was going to die and there probably won’t even be a mark left from it. 

********************

He doesn’t know if they’re giving him anything to help him sleep, but he manages to doze until his parents come back by dinner time.  And they bring his sister with them.  Jenny looks rough, with bags under watery blue eyes.  She sits immediately on the edge of his bed and takes his hand in her smaller one.  He feels so ridiculous, lying in this bed, being looked down on by everyone like some kind of invalid.  At this point, there’s really nothing physically wrong with him, just scratches and stitches and bruises.

She looks down on him with the constant sheen of tears in her eyes, though only a few roll down her cheeks.  She doesn’t ask him anything, only keeps saying, “Thank god, you’re alright,” and “We were so worried for you,” and giving a short uncomfortable laugh.  She leaves quickly, saying that she has to get back before her daughter runs circles around her husband.  It feels like a lie, like she just wants to get out of this room, away from seeing him like this. 

She’s just left when another nurse brings his dinner of broth and jello.  The broth tastes flavorless, but it still scratches in his tender throat.  Even water has started to feel irritating rather than soothing, and he wants to give up on talking entirely.  Even grunting hurts.  His parents can’t seem to remember though, and they keep asking questions only to then apologize as he starts to flap his hand.  It’s getting on his nerves.   

Tired of pretending to eat, he puts down his spoon.  But his momma isn’t satisfied with what he’s eaten and picks up the spoon.  This is exactly why he doesn’t want to stay with them after the hospital when she starts bringing another spoonful to his lips. 

“Noo,” he grits out as he turns his face away like a toddler. 

She sighs heavily and puts down the spoon before raising her hands in a gesture of surrender, guilting him without speaking.  He bites his lip to keep any words in, unsure whether an apology or a rant would come out.    

“Who’s at the farm?” he asks forcing the words out despite the pain that’s like a burning, spreading with every word to consume everything.  

“Your sister,” his Dad says.  “Her husband’s taking a few sick days.”

Christian frowns at the idea of his overworked sister taking on so much responsibility so he can lie here in this bed.  His momma must notice the tension in the conversation as she tries to distract him. 

She pushes his hair back from his face, tucking the greasy dark curl behind his ear.  “Tomorrow you can have a shower.  I bet that will make you feel better.”

Christian hums in acknowledgement but he’s focused on his Dad.  “Maybe old Jim Beaver would help, until I’m released,” he offers. 

His Dad wastes no time, just claps his shin again and says, “No worries.  I did this for years before you graduated.  We’ll survive while you rest.”

Christian flops back against the bed then, angry at the idea of being so easily replaced.  Why has he spent all these years skipping being with his friends, skipping trips to the studio?  He feels even more useless than he already did, lying in this hospital bed. 

His momma seems to misinterpret his actions, fussing with his blankets.  “Tired again, sweetie?” she asks, though she’s already moving as if the question is rhetorical. 

So he doesn’t bother answering.  Just closes heavy eyelids as his momma kisses his temple and his Dad pats his hand.  They tell him when they’ll be back, the plans for tomorrow, but he isn’t listening. 

He can’t really sleep though, even after they leave, turning the lights off as they go.  He’d love to be sedated so he could just pass out and sleep through all this shit.  The pain is making him restless, but there’s nothing to distract himself with, nothing but these stupid magazines.  He’s tired mentally, but his body just doesn’t seem to want to turn off.  His heart feels like it’s pounding and he can practically feel the whoosh of blood through his body.  He wishes he hadn’t run off his family now.    

Eventually he falls asleep after more pain meds that are supposed to help him breathe easier despite bruised ribs.  He doesn’t feel very rested when he gets up early the next morning to be released.  But it’s hurry up and wait as it takes hours to find the doctor, discuss at home care, and then finally get the paperwork done so he can be released.  He spends the time sitting on the side of his hospital bed, dressed now in sweatpants and sneakers.  He’s so tired that he really just wants to lie back down and try to sleep, but he’s afraid that it’ll hold up the process. 

When the wheelchair finally enters his room, he gets into it gratefully, wanting to leave more than he hates the humiliation of it.  Idly, he touches his chest, feeling the ridges of the stitches through the thick material of his sweatshirt.  The stitches have begun to itch with his increased movement.  His feet tingle, still swollen as he stands up to get into the back of his parents’ van.    

As soon as they’re home, His momma is keeping a hand on his arm, ushering him to sit down at the kitchen table.  “Do you want something to drink?  Hot tea or would you like some cold juice?” she asks him, immediately moving over to the refrigerator before he’s answered, eager for some way to be useful.  “I made you some broth,” she continues, rooting in the freezer.  “I have chicken with noodles or beef with rice.”

Sighing, he rubs his face with his hands, wondering idly when she started making soup, when he disappeared or when he was found.  Gone is that impulse from the night before to be near people.  All he wants is to be alone which he knows he’s unlikely to get here.  The paper’s on the table in front of him and he picks it up, searching for something, anything to do to keep his mind off how miserable this is.  The headline though is like a punch in the gut.  It reads, “More Victims Found.”

His breath freezes in his chest.  He knows exactly what it’s about without reading the article.  There’s a picture of _him_ , the now-dead man with hazel eyes.  In the photo, the man looks young, handsome, _normal_.  Even the man’s name is so normal, Michael Weatherly.  How in the fuck does someone…?

“Good riddance,” a deep voice says over his shoulder and Christian practically jumps out of his chair in fear before he realizes it’s just his Dad.  “Some people just don’t deserve to live.”

Christian’s heart is in his throat.  It’s something he himself has said many a time, reading stories just like this one in the paper.  But this time it’s happened to him.  He killed that man and suddenly, it doesn’t seem all that simple anymore. 

He stumbles out of his seat, their wary eyes watching him with judgment.  “I want to lie down for a while,” he mutters before he flees, taking the front section with him as he stomps up the stairs. 

He curls up on the bed in the fetal position, the paper cradled to his stomach.  He doesn’t want to know, but he has to.  Trembling, he brings the paper out.  It’s apparently a picture of the man’s house, but it looks more like one of those “Where’s Waldo” pictures.  People are all over the man’s yard, kneeling, standing, talking on their phones.  Christian doesn’t recognize anything but his eyes track to the cellar door, standing open in the photo to show a yawning mouth of blackness. 

He skims the article.  It’s the first he’s heard of the other victims, though of course he knew that there had been others.  _Seventeen_ little pictures neatly lined up in black and white, seventeen men who will never go home to their families like he did, who will never again lie in their childhood beds like he is.  He’s practically hyperventilating, shuddering as he thinks about dying in that horrible cellar like they did.  He can’t imagine how awful and suddenly tears are pooling in the side of his nose, tracking down into his hair. 

The remains of seventeen men have been found, it says.  Blood and hair found in the cellar on ropes and on the floor.  He was such a nice guy, a neighbor says.  Bile rises in the back of Christian’s throat. 

And then the article gets to him.  Local man escapes, it says.  After being missing for forty-eight hours, he’s found by authorities including the FBI after killing Michael Weatherly in a _brutal battle for survival,_ it says.  The paper crumples in his hand.  They make it sounds so simple.  He isn’t some hero, killing that man to avenge all of those deaths.  He killed out of weakness, out of a desperate fear.  What if there are other victims out there that they’ll never find?  Those families may never have closure all because Christian got rid of the only person who could give it to them. 

He shudders, tremors running from his shoulders through his tight stomach muscles and clenched thighs.  Guilt settles like a lead weight in his chest.  How could he kill someone?  But on the heels of that thought is how dare he feel guilty?  How dare he feel guilty when all of these other men never got the opportunity for vengeance?  For escape?  Surely they deserved to live as much as he.  Surely they were just as strong, stronger probably.  And yet he’s the one who survived to cower in his childhood bedroom. 

Those thoughts chase him out of bed.  He’s tired of being pathetic and he sits up, wiping his face.  Trying to force his hands to stop shaking only makes them shake harder so he ignores them and gets up.  There’s a duffel bag on the room’s chair that he didn’t notice earlier.  Looking inside, he sees toiletries and clothes, jeans and tshirts and sweatshirts.  He’s not sure how he feels about his parents packing him a bag like he’s eight years old and going to summer camp, but he just forces himself to take a deep breath.  Tucking strands of greasy hair behind his ear, he grabs his things for a shower. 

In the bathroom, he sets his things on the sink’s counter and then takes a moment to look at himself.  He reaches up a hand to touch the white strip at his neck.  It’s a waterproof dressing he knows, the same as the deeper cuts on his wrists and ankles.  But his eyes are drawn back to what he can see.  Slowly, he takes off his sweatshirt, hands skimming over the shallower cut on his chest and the purple and yellow bruises that run along his left side from collar to hip. 

He starts to feel a little light-headed and then realizes that it feels like he can’t breathe, like his heart is beating too fast and his ribs are squeezing his lungs.  He grips the edge of the counter hard as he tries to slow his breath, eight seconds in, eight seconds out, but it doesn’t seem to get any better.  Frustrated, he steps away, balancing on the sliding shower door, before he reaches in to turn on the water.  The hot water doesn’t relax him as much as usual, but it distracts him and helps relax stiff bruises.  The only problem is when he actually tries to wash.  His wrists are weak as he scrubs his fingers through long hair and then a sharp ache starts there.  He feels like just giving up and gives his body a half-hearted attempt, rubbing soap under his arms and over his chest.  By the time he gets out, he feels too hot. 

His wrists hurt too much to really dry off so his hair is still soaked and dripping down his neck as he pulls on a tshirt.  It feels nice to wear his own clothes again, makes him feel more himself to put on jeans and not have his ass hanging out of a thin robe. Exhausted from just showering, he’s just sat down on the bed when his momma knocks and immediately opens the door. 

“C’mon, sweetie, time for dinner,” she says, poking her head in. 

He immediately wants to snap at her.  She’s acting like he’s a little kid, telling him when to eat and everything, and not mentioning at all what happened.  The angry words almost come out of his mouth, but he chokes them down and stands up without a word.  He’s lucky to have an excuse not to have to speak, he figures. 

He wonders what his parents see when they look at him right now as he goes back downstairs.  The sound of voices talking down there just makes him more tired as he descends, but then there’s a familiar sound of squealing and a ball of pink is barreling towards his legs.  He’s bending to scoop his sister’s three year old daughter up in his arms without thinking about it, but his wrists suddenly give out under the strain and the little girl is falling from his arms.  Gasping in shock, he stumbles forward to try to catch her when his sister is suddenly there, catching the little tow-headed girl and pulling her away.  His heart is still in his throat when she pulls him in with her spare arm to give him a one-armed hug. 

“Happy to be out of there?” she asks, almost hopping to adjust the child on her hip. 

She’s acting like she didn’t notice anything being wrong at all while Christian’s eyes are still wide and shocked.  He knows that he’s seen the girl come much closer to falling than that, but he’s never been the cause of almost hurting a child before. 

“Yeah,” he stutters out, squeezing shaking hands into fists.  Forcing his face into a tiny smile feels like punching a brick wall, painful and useless.  But she smiles back, surprised and pleased and then she’s leading them back into the kitchen. 

Her husband is in the kitchen, his dark eyes stare immediately at Christian’s neck before giving him an awkward one-armed hug.  They sit down to dinner, everyone eating a meatloaf that his momma made except for him.  She offers him a small plate, but he doesn’t want to try eating for the first time in front of all of them and sticks to sipping on his bowl of broth.

They’re all unnaturally quiet as they begin eating.  His Dad tries to ask if he had any problem taking a shower, but Christian dismisses the question with a shake of his head, wet strands escaping from behind his ears as it curls.  He could speak, though it still hurts, but he doesn’t want to.  And the question isn’t one that he wants to answer anyway. 

The awkward atmosphere is picked up on by the little girl who begins fidgeting almost immediately.  Jennifer seems only too happy to turn her attention to trying to get the little girl to eat, but soon it becomes clear that her attempts are only making the little girl dig in her stubborn heels.  Christian’s first response is relief that they’re going to leave, and he hates himself for it.  They never get to spend enough time together, and now they have time and he’s pissing it away.    

Jennifer hands the girl to her husband before leaning over him for a goodbye hug. He doesn’t even get to say goodbye to the squirming girl before they’re all gone from the room.  Waiting at the table while his momma shows them out, he pretends to eat more of his soup while his Dad finishes his meatloaf.  But he’s not fooling anyone it seems.  His momma only glances at his bowl before she’s sighing and immediately making him a big bowl of ice cream.

He can’t help smiling as she hands the cold bowl to him, waving off his thanks and shooing him into the tv room.  It’s nice, sitting by himself on the couch, the cold ice cream.  He turns on the tv and just channel surfs with the sound low, hearing his momma doing the dishes in the kitchen.  It’s nice to not be watched for a minute. 

But when he takes his bowl into the kitchen, he sees his Dad sitting back down at the kitchen table with paperwork.  Frowning, Christian looks closer, looking over his Dad’s shoulder to see that it’s paperwork that he should be doing, paperwork that he had been doing before…Did his Dad go into his house?

He gives the paperwork a pointed stare until his Dad notices him standing there.  “I can still do paperwork, you know,” he says, ignoring the pain in his throat to speak as clearly as possible. 

His father gives a big sigh and sits back, hands spread out on the table.  “Your mother and I thought that…”

“ _I can still do paperwork_ ,” Christian repeats himself deliberately.  “It’s just a few bruises and the paperwork isn’t going to fight back.”

His father huffs a laugh and knocks a knuckle against the table top.  But he still doesn’t acquiesce.

“Stitches should come out Monday and then I’ll be back full time,” Christian continues. 

“No,” his Dad says quickly.  “I’ll give you the paperwork back and we’ll talk about the rest.”  His Dad stands then and herds him back to the couch.  “But not this moment. You better sit back down before your momma gets even more upset.”

Christian nods and swallows despite the now re-awakened pain in his throat.  They’re watching some mystery show from like the eighties that his momma loves, Murder She Wrote or something like it.  It should be nice to just rest for the night and zone out, but now he feels his parents’ presence like the evil eye on him.  Every time he lets his mind wander, it goes straight back to the newspaper article.  He can’t help thinking about those other men.  He knows exactly how scared they were, but for them there was no relief.  He’s starting to feel obsessed with it, with thinking of how they must have felt at the end. 

To distract himself, he takes out his phone and texts Steve then, just a short message that he’s fine at his parents’ house.  He doesn’t even take the time to tease about how they’re driving him crazy.  Steve texts back right away, asking if he needs anything, but he sets his phone aside on the couch arm.  He doesn’t know what else to say.  Tired from his first full day without a nap, he leans his head back, but he doesn’t want to go to sleep.  Without that distraction of the phone, he starts fidgeting, pain flaring in his hips out from his bruised kidneys. 

But his momma is quickly staring at him because of it.  “Honey, if you’re tired, just go to bed,” she finally says. 

He nods quickly, happy to escape her concerned gaze.  But once he’s ready for bed, he finds himself unwilling to turn off the light and go to sleep.  Curling tighter on his side, he can only stare at the opposite wall, the window covered with closed blinds.  He resists the urge to scan the room for an intruder.  He feels watched even though he knows that the only one who was watching isn’t there anymore.  His parents are just downstairs, but still he feels frightened of being alone. 

Sleeping comes in fits and starts.  He spends most of the night feeling like his heart is pounding against his ribs and he wakes more tired than when he went to bed.  Annoyance beats an angry tattoo against his pained temples.  He’s annoyed at having to be here, under his parents’ supervision like a child again.  He’s not doing it.  He’s not hanging around here anymore.  Dressing in jeans and a sweatshirt, he quickly repacks the duffel bag and takes it downstairs with him. 

His momma is making eggs, but when she catches sight of the bag she’s slamming down the spatula.  “Christian Michael Kane!” she snaps.  “Can you not just take it easy and follow the doctor’s orders for five minutes?”

His eyes widen at her outburst of emotion but then his own annoyance comes back at her attempts to control him.  “Momma, I’m fine and can rest at my own house.  He didn’t say I needed to be watched for a week.”

He sets his bag on the kitchen chair and crosses his arms unconsciously.  Her mouth purses, he knows what she looks like when she’s gearing up for a telling off so he tries to preempt her.  “All of my stuff is at my house.  I just want a little time alone.”

“You were gone for two days, Christian,” she says then, hands clenched into fists on her hips.  “The FBI were there talking about those other murdered men and you were _gone_!”

Christian is shocked by the sudden admission.  He suddenly feels like an asshole for not thinking about how terrorized _they_ had been by the experience.  It’s not all about him. 

“I’m…sorry,” he says stupidly, his crossed arms tightening around himself.  He doesn’t know what to say. 

The door is opening then, interrupting them and his Dad is looking over the two of them.  He seems to know what’s going on immediately. 

“Leaving then?” his Dad asks, coming over to stand beside his momma, hand on her back.  “Little sooner than even I assumed,” he murmurs.

Christian shrugs, all of his reasons seeming so trivial now, but he hasn’t changed his mind.  “I don’t need any help.”

His Dad nods sadly and then ducks his head to speak close to his momma’s ear.  “He’s a grown man, Pam,” his Dad says.  “He has to get back to his own life.”

She sobs then and presses into his Dad’s chest.  Christian is about to recant then, but he doesn’t get the words out past his thick tongue. 

“He’s fine now,” his Dad soothes the smaller woman in his arms.  “It’s over.”

The words settle in Christian’s gut like a cement block.  It’s not over for him.  He can’t stand his momma’s coddling and his father’s attitude, like Christian should just be a man, like there is some kind of pride to anything that happened.  He just wants to forget.

 “I’ll be just down the road,” he mutters pathetically.  “You can call me.”

His momma doesn’t look at him as he skulks out the door to wait for his Dad to drive him home.  When his Dad does come out, he’s carrying a reusable grocery bag full of frozen soups.  The drive is mostly silent, but when they pull up in his driveway, his Dad gives him a hard look before handing him a stack of paperwork. 

“Give us a call tonight,” his Dad says in parting. 

Christian just nods, not trusting his voice as his attention is now entirely taken up with staring at his house.  Everything seems so perfectly normal from the outside.  The grass needs mowing like a couple of other yards on this street.  But inside, it’s like a haunted house to Christian.  Haunted by a man Christian barely even knew. 

Opening the door, Christian slides inside, not wanting his Dad to see his reticence to enter.  The door shuts with finality behind him as he looks around.  His Nana’s blanket has been folded and left on the back of the couch.  He’s hyperventilating before he knows it, fear choking his throat, closing it up.  It’s suddenly dark, but he can feel _that man_ out there.  He can feel _that man’s_ breath on his cheek again and desperately he throws himself back, trying to get away even though he knows he’s trapped. 

There’s the clatter of the bags hitting the ground and then his back bumps into something hard.  It startles him into opening his eyes and he realizes that he’s on the ground, in his living room against his bookshelf.  He’s staring across the room at the couch uncomprehendingly even as he tries to suck in a breath into his frozen lungs.  It seems so out of place, but eventually his mind realizes that he’s in his house.  It’s over, it’s over.  But it feels less like a revelation and more like he’s trying to convince himself. 

Reaching out a hand, he clutches the edge of a shelf, legs still tucked into his chest defensively.  His chest is heaving and he’s sweating.  With a shaky forearm, he wipes his forehead, then yanks out his hair tie to scratch hands through unruly curly hair.  He still feels like he can’t breathe, can’t calm down, his heart thudding like a weight in his chest. 

But he forces himself to stand up and then tries to tie his hair back again in a high ponytail.  Walking into the kitchen, he heads straight for the sink, splashing water on his face and reaching for the papertowels.  Grumbling as he remembers the frozen soups, he walks back into the living room to see the cartons spilled all over the floor.  He angrily picks them up and puts them in the freezer.     

Done with that, he finds himself looking over the room, not looking it over but scouring it.  He feels watched again, like everything in here is tainted, like it’s not his.  To distract himself, he grabs himself a cup of water from the tap, but even it tastes sour on his tongue.  The fruit in the bowl is going bad so he throws the whole bowl out. 

Opening the refrigerator, he sees that someone has cleaned it out.  Did they think that he was already dead?  Or did they assume there was no hope because no one had ever survived?  Two days, he thinks.  What if it were someone else and he’d been left behind?  What if it were Steve who disappeared…Christian would be beside himself, tearing the world apart to find him.  It’s unimaginable having to sit and wait for news of the investigation. 

Shaking off his thoughts, he finds himself moving from the refrigerator to open the next cabinet, scouring it and then the next one, looking for anything out of place.  It’s ridiculous, but he can’t stop himself as he goes through each cupboard, his breath getting faster until he’s panting. 

Normally if he had a day off, he’d be excited, he’d have a million and one things that he’d want to do.  But now he can’t seem to work up the interest to do anything.  Hell, he realizes that he didn’t even see the horses before leaving.  The horses are his friends, he doesn’t just ignore them, but right now, he doesn’t think even horses could cheer him up. 

Pulling himself away from the cabinets, he uses the back of a chair to steady himself.  He’s just catching his breath when he’s startled by a knock at the door so much that he actually does knock over his chair, his foot caught on the leg.  Wincing as he pulls free, Christian feels ten kinds of fool as he rights the chair and tries to wipe up the spilled water on the table with paper towels.  By the time he’s heading to the door, he is almost hopeful whoever it is will have given up waiting and left. 

There’s another knock right before Christian is peering out the peephole.  He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised to see Jeff out there. 

“Jeff,” he greets as he opens the door. 

Jeff smiles back at him like this is some kinda fucking social call.  Opening the door wider, Christian shakes his head as he waves them in, watching how Quinn keeps his hands in his pockets like he doesn’t want to be tempted to touch anything. 

Christian is confused about what to do as he closes the door after them though.  “Want something to drink?” he offers as he wanders back into the kitchen.  “I’ve got…water,” he says as he remembers his empty refrigerator.  “And coffee.”

“That sounds great,” Jeff takes the offer.  He leans one hip on the counter by the coffee machine as Christian sets about making the coffee. 

Caught off guard by the agent’s behavior, it takes Christian a moment to even remember where he keeps the coffee and when he opens the cabinets, he’s stupidly grateful that the bag of coffee grounds hasn’t moved.  He actually doesn’t even use this coffee maker that much.  In the mornings, he waits til he gets to the farm and drinks the pot his momma makes. 

Setting it to brew, he looks back at Jeff.  “How’d you know I’d be here?” Christian asks, turning his back to the counter and crossing his arms so he can also see Quinn already sitting at the table. 

Jeff laughs, an intimate sounding noise despite that they’re not alone.  “Figured you would want out of your parents’ house pretty quick,” he says.  “And I thought maybe you would want a distraction.”

Christian looks up, taken aback by the knowledge of his fear at his own home.  But then the surprise fades to something like relief that he doesn’t have to pretend. 

Still, he feels too exposed with Jeff’s dark eyes on him so he turns to include the younger agent.  “Yeah, I suppose y’all have been in here before,” Christian says, nodding his head towards Quinn. 

“Yeah, we were here,” Quinn says smiling though not genuinely.  Christian doesn’t know why the man would be embarrassed.  It’s his job after all.  “It’s a nice place,” Quinn continues.  “Your buddies kept telling us how unorganized you are.”

Christian’s face falls at the mention of his friends’ words and he looks away abruptly.  He feels like he should laugh off the teasing, but he can’t seem to.  His mind is stuck on remembering how his friends ignored his concerns.  He shakes his head at his own thoughts.  He doesn’t want to feel betrayed on top of everything else.  Even now the idea of being stalked seems ridiculous. 

The silence is just becoming awkward when the coffee is ready.  He pulls out three mugs and pours the steaming coffee. 

 “No milk, but here’s some sugar,” he says unapologetically as he puts all three mugs and the sugar bowl on the table. 

Reluctantly, Quinn moves away from the doorway to take a seat.  He dumps several spoons of sugar in his, but Christian isn’t surprised to see Jeff taking it black, cradling the warm cup in those big hands. 

“Guess you have some more questions?” Christian asks.  “Not like there’s much left to investigate.”

“Maybe not,” Jeff acquiesces.  “But the bureau likes to have as much information on all known serial killers as possible, to increase our ability to understand and catch the next one.”

“And I killed the guy you really want to talk to,” Christian guesses, his face pulled down in a frown as he presses his hands tight to the burning cup. 

Jeff’s face is oddly serious as he leans toward Christian, saying, “Oh, I’d rather talk to you.”

Christian blinks up, surprised out of his melancholy state.  He knows the man is flirting, but it also is too easy to remember that he could very well not be here at all.  If they were talking to Michael Weatherly right now, then he’d be dead and not flirting with hot FBI agents. 

He’s looking in the inky blackness of his coffee cup when Jeff scoots his chair closer and lays a hand on his arm.  “You did what you had to.  I know it’s hard…”

Christian looks away to the side and then clears his throat.  When he looks back, his face is carefully neutral.  “So what do y’all need to ask me?”  He tries to be casual and cheerful about it, like he’s over the whole thing.  He should be, he’s the one that survived. 

“What’s the first thing you remember being strange or out of place?” Jeff asks. 

Christian recounts those confusing days beforehand as stoically as he can, despite how embarrassed he is.  Even knowing that they were all warning signs, he still feels stupid by how scared he was at little things being out of place.  He rubs a hand over the back of his neck and looks at the table top, too embarrassed to see their faces. 

“It was just stupid stuff, at first,” he starts haltingly.  “Just my lemon reamer out of place on the counter and then my bandana going missing.  I thought…I mean, I don’t know, did he have a red car?”

He chances a look up, but Jeff’s face doesn’t tell him anything.  “You think you saw a red car following you?”

“Maybe,” Christian hedges, looking down again.  “But it wasn’t…I guess it wasn’t until I came home and found my bed turned down, like they do in hotels.  I know, knew that I hadn’t done that.  So I ended up sleeping on the couch and then…”  Christian has to swallow hard because that was when he started to get really scared that this wasn’t just a prank by his friends.  “I woke up with a blanket covering me.  I have no idea how he could have gotten in without me waking up…”

He’s starting to breathe harder when Jeff asks, “You want a break?”

Christian shakes his head hard once.  He doesn’t want to drag this out.  He wants to get it over with.  It gets harder when they ask him to walk them through what happened once he awoke in the cellar.

“I don’t know,” he stumbles, squinting as he tries desperately to remember.  It’s so frustrating.  He thought he’d remember absolutely everything, but now it’s hard.  And it’s important.  He feels like he’s failing them, the FBI and all of those men who lost their lives to this sick fuck. 

“I just woke up there, already t-tied up,” he stutters, the heel of one hand pushing into his forehead.  “He had the noose around my neck before I even knew it and then he was choking me.  He said, he said…”

He startles when he feels a firm touch to his bicep and looks up surprised to see Jeff who’s now leaning close to him.  “Hey, hey,” Jeff says.  “Calm down.  You’re not there.  You’re here, with me.”

Christian’s muscles are tense as he fists his hands in the loose material of his jeans and sucks in a breath through his mouth.  His pupils have tightened to pinpricks as he stares down at his knees. 

“He said I was strong, like the others.  He said we all ignored the warnings…” Christian has to trail off then as he’s hyperventilating, sucking in air through his open mouth like a fish. 

“Ok, ok,” Jeff murmurs as he gently starts to press Christian’s head down.  Christian resists, of course, hands jerking on Jeff’s forearms.  “Just put your head between your knees,” Jeff explains before pushing on Christian’s neck firmly again. 

Finally Christian acquiesces, his breath already slowing minutely as he is distracted by concentrating on the other man.  Jeff’s other hand is warm as it runs up and down the breadth of Christian’s back.  Jeff keeps his face low to the other man, still murmuring.  “Just relax.  You’re not there.  Focus on my voice, my hands, alright?”  And then softer, “Jesus, kid, why aren’t you with your friends?”

Christian’s hands continue to cling to Jeff’s arms as if it’s the only thing keeping him afloat until he can finally breathe again.  Then he drops a hand up to Jeff’s knee, squeezing it once.  Jeff lets him up slowly, but keeps his hand around the back of Christian’s neck as dark eyes search Christian’s face.  But Christian doesn’t meet his eyes.    

“Hey, we can finish this another time,” Jeff says, eyes flickering. 

The words are meant to be a comfort, but Christian grits his teeth and ducks his head further, Jeff’s hand a heavy weight on him.  He doesn’t want to do this again.  He doesn’t want to do this at all.  He just wants to forget that this ever happened.  And those thoughts make him feel weak and pathetic.  This isn’t about him.  This is about all of those other families that need closure, and about all of the families in the future that might get their loved ones back because of whatever knowledge the FBI can garner. 

“I’m fine,” he says, trying to pull away, but Jeff jerks him back close. 

Jeff studies him with a hard expression, but Christian looks over to seek out Quinn’s eyes.  The two young men stare at each other like a challenge, before Quinn speaks. 

“What about how you escaped?” Quinn asks. 

Christian takes a deep breath and sits back a little.  He doesn’t bother trying to pull his hands out of Jeff’s grip though.  He closes his eyes, but everything feels confused in his mind.  He tries to remember, but he can feel himself leaning away as if physically pulling back from remembering. 

“I popped the tie on my wrists,” he finally says.  He remembers getting his hands free.  “I was…it surprised us.”

“And the knife…” Quinn prompts him. 

Christian is simply staring vacantly at the tabletop then and doesn’t acknowledge the spoken words.  “On the floor… _he_ , he was on the floor and the knife…”  Christian breath shudders out of him as he pauses.  “I couldn’t reach it, the noose…”

“So the noose was still around your neck and he was on the ground with the knife,” Jeff recaps soothingly. 

“I couldn’t get out,” Christian murmurs, breath coming faster again though he still doesn’t look at the two men, doesn’t seem to hear them.  “I couldn’t get out, the noose was too tight and the knife…it was on the floor, it was in him, _oh God_ ,” Christian suddenly breaking his stare as he makes a sobbing sound. 

This time Christian avoids Jeff’s attempts at comfort.  He turns away towards the table, hiding his face in his hands for just a moment, before getting himself under control.   

“So you were trapped after he was dead?” Quinn draws Christian’s attention, his voice satisfied like he’s figured out a puzzle. 

“I don’t know how long,” Christian murmurs before he clears his throat and sits up again.  “I had to get the knife.  I had to get my feet free.  It seemed forever.”

Quinn nods to himself, a mystery solved in his head.  Christian’s hands feel suddenly sensitive and he rubs his wrists unconsciously. 

By the time Christian has related the entire experience, he’s talking down at the table again.  One hand props up his forehead and the other on the back of his neck, fingers tickling the skin that’s sensitive with phantom pain and real aches. 

There’s silence for a long moment, long enough for Christian to feel embarrassed, until Quinn speaks up.  “Can I use your bathroom?”

Lifting his face, Christian blinks and answers, “Yeah, it’s…you probably know.”

Quinn smiles again, one side lifting higher in more of a smirk.  “I’ll find it.”

Christian looks back at the table, but then Jeff is suddenly closer, his presence a physical weight by Christian’s side.  He starts to pull away, but then Jeff’s hand is a soothing rub on his back and he just can’t make himself. 

“Hey, you look exhausted,” Jeff says quietly.  “How’s your throat?  I shouldn’t have let you talk this much.”

“It’s fine,” Christian answers.  “Better in the morning anyway.”  The scratchiness seems to get worse later in the day. 

“Don’t you have a friend you could stay with?” Jeff asks.  “It must be hard to be in this house so soon.”

Christian just shakes his head.  He could call Steve who would definitely let him stay over, but he doesn’t want the other man to see him like this, weak and scared.  He had a feeling that it would change things between them and Christian doesn’t know that it would be for the better.  He thinks about David’s place.  He wouldn’t say no to a roll in the hay to get him a night away from here, but he figures his neck is pretty much a turn off right now. 

He must be silent too long because Jeff offers, “You can stay with me.”  Christian turns his face to look at the agent in surprise.  Jeff smiles knowingly.  “Not like that.  Not that I don’t want…”

Christian snorts.  “You this helpful to all the victims?”

Jeff huffs a laugh.  “No, not at all actually, it’s just you.  I’ve never, you know, rescued anyone like that, never had anyone literally fall into my arms,” he says, moving closer to Christian instinctually as he remembers the day they finally met. 

Christian can’t help focusing on the mention of other victims and he hates the way that his mind continuously goes back to what happened, hates that he can’t just focus on the flirting for more than a few seconds.  The joy just gets sucked out of him in an instant, it seems. 

“Wh-what happened?” Christian swallows.  “To the others.”

Jeff kneels in front of him so they’re at eye level as Christian instinctively hunches forward as if to protect himself from what the agent will say.  “They died.  Most passed out and hung themselves.”

Christian makes some kind of strangled embarrassing noise, but he doesn’t pull away when Jeff’s hand lands on the back of his neck, pulling him in to lean his forehead against Jeff’s chest. 

“You can grieve for them,” Jeff whispers into his hair.  “Let it out.”

“They didn’t…” Christian chokes off, a sobbing sound erupting from him before he can stop it.  Jeff’s hand is comforting on the back of his neck while the other sweeps up and down Christian’s back. 

For just that second, Christian lets himself feel how devastated he is by those deaths even though he never knew them.  He knows exactly how it felt to be stuck down there, and to think of them dying without their families, knowing that their families might never find them, never know. 

He sucks back the rest of the sobs.  He’s not actually crying, but still he’s shaking as he leans on Jeff’s chest.  By the time he’s done, he feels punchdrunk, languid but still miserable, discomfort on the edges of his awareness.  He takes a deep breath, smelling the man’s cologne, woodsy and musky.  It makes him pull away, get some composure back. 

“Jeff, I…don’t know if this is a good idea,” he says stupidly. 

Jeff doesn’t take the hint, his hand running gently down Christian’s face, tucking a strand back behind his ear before he moves to sit close beside Christian on the loveseat.  “I’m not pushing you for anything,” Jeff rumbles.  “I just want to help you if you won’t let anyone else.”

Christian nods, not entirely listening.  “I’m fine,” he says for maybe the fiftieth time but Jeff is the only one who doesn’t seem to believe it.  “I should see where Quinn is,” he says flustered. 

Quinn is looking around his living room, looking through his knick-knacks.  Christian would almost think the man was waiting for him. 

“Everything ok?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Quinn says casually, turning to lean back against the tv stand, crossing his arms as he looks at Christian.  “Look, Chris, I get it.”

Christian is already frowning, not liking where this is going.  But Quinn keeps on. 

“I got shot this one time.  I was the rookie and Jeff is older and experienced and everything.  I didn’t want him and everybody to think I couldn’t pull my weight or needed to be babied,” Quinn explains, still looking uncomfortable with it himself.  “Jeff’s a great guy, and he won’t look at you differently if you let him help you.”

Christian is confused.  “I barely know him…”

Quinn gives him a pointed look that makes Christian think that the guy doesn’t have any problem getting women into his bed.  “Look, I can see the flirting going on.  Jeff had a look in his eyes just looking at your pictures.  He really worked this case, man.”

Christian is stunned.  He still just can’t quite grasp what happened while he was gone, how everyone reacted.  He can’t imagine how Jeff could want to help him so much.  He doesn’t want to be needy and pathetic even if that’s how he feels right now. 

“I…” Christian stutters, unsure what to say. 

Quinn looks away as if he’s not really expecting an answer, but then they both hear the sound of a phone coming from the kitchen.  Jeff’s voice is too muted to tell, but then the man is walking out into the living room.  He’s still holding the phone, gesturing with it to Quinn. 

“That was…” Jeff trails off as Quinn nods and pushes himself off of Christian’s mantle.  The younger agent heads toward the door, but Jeff heads to Christian. 

“You gonna be alright?” Jeff asks.  In a blink, Jeff is right there, gentle fingers touching Christian’s arm. 

“Yeah, I just…”  Christian frowns.  He’s still not sure if he wants to encourage Jeff’s attention or not. 

“Hey, sit down,” Jeff offers, pulling him toward the couch. 

But instinctively, Christian digs in his heels to stop them, his breathing coming fast and loud.  Jeff stops pulling, but doesn’t let go of Christian as he turns back around.  Jeff’s eyes are understanding. 

“The blanket,” Jeff says and Christian almost shudders in relief. 

He’s so relieved to have someone that understands that he doesn’t pull away as Jeff pulls him into a half embrace, warm and solid beside him.  “Do you have another room?  A room that he wasn’t in?”

He exhales a shaky breath.  He doesn’t know why he didn’t think of it.  His house is a two bedroom, but he converted the other bedroom to a kind of music room.  “Upstairs,” he says.  The room is a jumbled mess as it always is and he hasn’t been in there in months, hasn’t had the time.  But there’s at least a loveseat there. 

But Jeff is still staring at him with that look of concerned understanding.  “It’s good.  I’ll be fine,” Christian says, strangely trying to reassure the other man. 

“Alright,” Jeff acquiesces.  “I’m gonna go back to the sheriff’s office for a while, but here’s my number,” he says, handing over a business card with a number scrawled on the back.  “I can be over here immediately for any reason.  But otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

It’s a question so Christian nods, wondering how long Jeff is going to be in town but not wanting to ask and seem like he’s encouraging this, whatever _this_ is between them.  Following dumbly behind the two men to his front door, he’s not prepared as a bright light suddenly flashes in front of them, right in his eyes.  His heart is suddenly beating out of his chest and Christian stumbles clumsily into Jeff’s larger body, not understanding what is happening as Quinn steps in front of them, steps outside, his voice raised. 

Blinking, the world suddenly comes rushing back in with the sound of his own harsh breathing and he’s interrupting whatever Jeff’s saying to harshly ask what’s happening. 

“Reporters,” Jeff says with a shamefaced grimace, closing the door in front of them to block out what’s happening outside.  “I tried to stall them as long as possible, but now they’ve published your name.  They have to stay on the sidewalk though, so you’ll be able to avoid them even getting to your car.  If you have any trouble or do want to make a statement, let me know, alright?”

Christian’s mind reels at the idea of reporters wanting to know about what happened to him.  “I don’t want to talk to them,” he says automatically. 

Jeff turns fully towards him then and his face curves in a fake smile that frankly looks like it hurts.  “Hey, how about I stay and we go upstairs to your music room, alright?”

Christian’s own anxiety disappears at Jeff’s obvious attempt to protect him like he’s a child.  “No, you need to go.  I’ll stay inside.  Really, it’s fine,” he says, trying to project confidence. 

He moves away with a huff.  Resisting the urge to cross his arms protectively over his chest, Christian sticks his thumbs into his front pockets and smiles as dark eyes immediately flick over the tented material.  Knowing he’s been caught, Jeff laughs and raises his hands in surrender. 

“Well, just don’t start throwing things at them or anything,” Jeff says with his own smile and Christian actually laughs, genuinely amused by the idea.  With a last searching look, Jeff joins his partner outside. 

Alone again, he feels the itch on his back, as if he’s being watched and he worries at the cuffs of his sweatshirt.  Ignoring it, he goes back to his kitchen and cleans up from the coffee, most of which wasn’t even drunk.  Christian throws out the rest of the pot, feeling like caffeine is probably the last thing that he needs.  He wants a beer, but there aren’t any in the fridge and he certainly doesn’t want to go out with his throat looking like this, not with reporters out there now. 

His throat is starting to feel irritated like swallowing grains of salt.  It won’t help, but he grabs some ice out of the freezer for his glass of water.  He feels tired, worn out from being around other people, from talking about what happened even if it’s all that he can think about.  His gaze strays again to where the bowl of fruit had been, where the bandana had been found. 

The kitchen is for gatherings, for hanging out with friends.  It’s amazing how he and Steve always end up in the kitchen when they get together.  But it’s not as intimate as the den and not nearly as intimate as his bedroom so perhaps that’s why he can stand to be in the kitchen. 

Finally, he can’t take it anymore.  He has to check the house.  He hasn’t checked it since he came home and it just itches under his skin.  Starting with the living room, he skirts around the couch to get to the downstairs bedroom before hurrying up the stairs.  He checks every room, every closet, pulling back the curtains and the shower door and even checking under the bed.  There’s nothing there and he’s left only feeling ridiculous. 

Huffing out a breath, he knows that he needs to make some dinner.  Woodenly, he makes his way back downstairs and takes one of the cartons his momma gave him out of the freezer.  The frozen contents land with a plunk in the saucepan.  Appetizing, he thinks.  When did his momma start making the soup, he wonders, before or after he was actually found? 

He’s poking at the frozen chunk with a wooden spoon when suddenly he hears his front door opening and closing.  It makes his heart stutter in his chest, like a burst of icy wind was let in.  Stupidly, he’s only holding a spoon for protection as his head whips around, his heart in his throat. 

“Hey,” Steve greets as if this is any other day, as if Christian is supposed to be _normal_.  It takes a minute for the smile to drop off of his face at Christian’s lack of response.  “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Christian growls.  He’s angry at his own pathetic reaction, but he’ll be damned if he’ll tell anyone that.  It’s not Steve’s fault.  Steve always walks in without invitation and Christian hates himself for wanting Steve to understand that things are different now.  He doesn’t want things to be different. 

“What’re you doin’ here?” Christian continues, his anger spilling over as he practically throws the spoon into the pan. 

Steve raises a foil covered casserole dish in his hands.  “Just brought you some food,” he says, eyebrows drawn in in annoyance at the attitude. 

“No one died!” Christian snaps.  “I don’t need you to bring over food.  I can cook for myself and…”

His rant breaks off in a coughing fit, his throat seizing up.  Doubling over, he turns away to hide, clutching at the counter as he tries to make it stop.  It hurts like tearing out his throat and at the same time being hit with a baseball bat in his chest.  There are tears leaking from the corners of his clenched shut eyes by the time that it finally stops. 

Miserably, he wipes his face and straightens up to look back at Steve still frozen across the room.  “Jesus, Chris, just calm down,” the blonde hisses, face pulled back in a sympathetic grimace.  “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

The pity written all over Steve just makes him angrier.  He’s not weak or fragile and this isn’t the first time that he’s gotten into a scrape.  Holding up a hand, he wordlessly stops Steve from getting closer until he can trust his voice.  Staring, Steve simply fidgets, growing more and more uncomfortable.  It’s miserable.  Reaching across the table suddenly, he takes the casserole pan from Steve’s hand and shoves it in the oven.

“It just needs to be warmed up, maybe 325,” Steve interjects and it only makes Christian wants to throw a tantrum that he doesn’t need advice to warm up dinner. 

“Want some water?” Christian deflects, his voice still coming out hoarse.  Turning away before the other man can answer, he gets two glasses down automatically. 

“Yeah,” Steve answers hesitantly, taking a meaningful step forward only to stop and look away, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck under the curtain of blonde hair.  “That’s fine.  Listen, I just want…I just wanted to see you’re alright.”

Christian doesn’t answer for a moment, his back still turned but the answer is written in the tense line of his shoulders.  Steve doesn’t press, he never does 

“Thought we could hang out some,” Steve tries to sound more casual, abandoning any attempt to talk about Christian’s injuries or ordeal apparently. 

Christian turns around, leaning back against the counter as he sips his own water.  He shrugs like it doesn’t matter even though the anger itches underneath his skin, blocks his throat in a painful lump.      

“I’m not great company,” the brunette says lightly, affecting a self-deprecating smile.  “Mostly I’ve been sleeping a lot.”

It’s a blatant lie and he turns away from Steve before the blonde can see it on his face.  He busies himself getting plates and silverware and putting them on the table.  Steve has taken a seat at the table, his hand clenched around the glass and eyes averted.  Fed up with everything, Christian turns back around sharply and suddenly decides that the casserole is warm enough. 

He’s reaching inside before Steve shouts out.  “Potholder!” the blonde shouts, rocketing up from his seat.  “Jesus fuck, Chris.”

Christian’s face is a mask of embarrassment as he freezes, just glad that the other man can’t actually see it.  Biting his lip to the point of pain, he tries to figure out where his brain is.  And this time Steve is here to witness it.  Normally they’d laugh off each other’s stupidity but he certainly doesn’t feel like laughing right now. 

Keeping his back turned, Christian snatches up a nearby drying cloth and uses that to grab the casserole dish.  He plunks it on the table hard as if daring his friend to say something.  Steve doesn’t, too busy still looking frightened.  Christian ignores the wide blue eyes and grabs the serving spoon, doling out large helpings carelessly. 

Steve sits back down once a plate is pushed over to him, but the awkwardness doesn’t dissipate when Christian sits down with his own plate.  They’ve known each other too long to make small talk, but neither can find the words to say what’s on their mind. 

He’s so caught up in his own head that he doesn’t notice how long the silence lingers until Steve finally breaks it.  “Hey, wanna just take this to the couch?” Steve asks, far too hesitantly.  “Watch some tv?”

Flinching at the idea of eating on the couch only makes Steve recoil with a kicked puppy look on his face.  “Actually,” Christian starts then winces at how his voice is suddenly hoarser than before.  “I’m tired, think I might just go to bed.”

Steve’s blue eyes tighten into a glare as they look down at Christian’s untouched plate.  “You haven’t eaten,” the blonde points out.

Gritting his teeth at being treated like a child by his best friend, he simply glares back until Steve backs down with a big sigh and stands up.  “Right, well, call me if you need anything.”

Steve leaves after another moment of hesitance, his anger only voiced in the front door clanging shut.  Christian grits his own teeth, angry at himself.  He’s angry that he’s too scared to just have a decent night with his best friend, angry that he wishes that Steve just knew about his fears, like Jeff just _knew_. 

Christian bangs around the kitchen, putting up the rest of the casserole.  He’s no longer hungry, but he shoves a bit of casserole in his mouth and then puts the soup back in the container, banging the pot into the sink.  This hissing of his strained breath betrays his sudden anxiety, and he’s starting to get hot and sweaty and panicked.  He grips the edge of the sink, letting the counter dig into his hands, but that just makes his wrists feel weak.

Angry at everything, he rushes suddenly upstairs.  Maybe he can just take a shower and go to sleep.  He wishes that he could just sleep this all away until the bruises fade into tan skin.  But as he reaches the doorway to his bedroom, he can’t make himself go inside.  It’s like an invisible glass door where he can only stare at it from the outside, feeling outside of his memories even as he remembers lying in that bed and feeling the breeze on his back. 

Christian shivers involuntarily, only then realizing that he feels cold down to his very bones and is covered in goosebumps.  Turns around on the spot, he goes back downstairs, muscles too uncoordinated to run down there. 

Currently sleeping is the last thing on his mind and so he makes himself another pot of coffee to fill up a carafe that he takes with him fishing sometimes.  Fortified, he grabs the paperwork and then heads back to the music room, intending to spend the rest of the night there.  He feels trapped in his own home, in his own head.  It should be safe here, in his home, but he doesn’t feel safe anywhere anymore.  The man is dead he tells himself, but it doesn’t seem to matter. 

Staring absently at the paperwork, he chews absently on his sleeve cuff, unable to concentrate on the work.  This room actually is so cluttered that he’s not sure that he would notice if something in here was moved.  He glances over at his guitar but doesn’t move a muscle to get it.  He doesn’t feel interested in even playing a little, even though the music normally soothes him like nothing else besides the horses. 

Eventually, he’s so tired that he ends up curled up on the couch, falling asleep with the lights on.  As soon as he falls asleep though, Christian is startling awake, sweating and panting and shaking in pointless, unending fear. 

*****

The next morning, Christian dresses with more purpose, determined to get out of this house despite his self-consciousness of his injuries.  The black bruising is definitely visible around the white bandage now, turning greenish around the edges.  He doesn’t care.  He can’t stay here. 

He showers and dresses in a tshirt and checked button-up, but he doesn’t roll up the sleeves as he usually would.  He’s still wearing clothes out of the duffel bag that his momma brought so he doesn’t have much choice.  Rubbing his hands over the bandages over his wrists, he notices that he’s not wearing any jewelry.  He feels strangely naked without anything, but he isn’t willing to go back inside his bedroom.   

But where should he go?  He should go is to the grocery but deciding what to get seems overwhelming.  He wants to go to a bar, but it’s still morning and, moreover, he doesn’t want to deal with lecturing by his family or Steve. 

That’s an idea.  He could go see Steve at the studio.  He may have been an asshole last night, but it’s never stopped him before.  A day spent listening to music sounds better than the day he had planned.  Decision made, he heads out his front door before he can change his mind.  A few steadfast reporters and their vans still wait on his curb, but he doesn’t acknowledge them or their shouts.  It’s easy enough to ignore as he quickly gets into his car, too caught up in the sound of blood rushing in his ears.  His hand is shaking as he turns the key in the ignition. 

The reporters don’t follow him thankfully.  They know that he’ll have to come back, he thinks fatalistically.  But his nerves are still tight in his throat as he watches the rearview mirror almost more than what’s right in front of him.  As soon as he realizes what he’s doing though, he’s disgusted with himself.  The tangle of emotions feels much like a pounding in his head.  He just wants to enjoy having a day off where he’s not sick and hiding under his covers.  Is that too much to ask? 

The studio is quiet when he enters.  It’s not that he has to call ahead or anything before stopping by, but at the moment, he feels like an intruder.  There’s no real front desk, no one to greet visitors so he sets down the empty hallway.  It feels so empty that Christian almost surprised when he sees Jay ahead of him.  Smiling in anticipation of Jay’s usual enthusiasm, he’s put off when the taller man greets him with a frown. 

“My God, man,” Jay says, one hand reaching towards Christian only to change direction and cover Jay’s own mouth.  “Your neck.”

Christian lifts his own hand to pull close his open collar as if that would hide it.  His stomach drops to the floor as he stares up into Jay’s face, his friend’s face which should never be contorted into that concerned expression, _never_. 

“Are you ok?  Shouldn’t you be at home?” Jay asks with a sympathetic wince. 

“I’m fine,” Christian snaps despite knowing that his voice doesn’t sound fine. 

It galls him that Jay of all people would act this way and so he forces himself to be the one to act normal.  He steps up to Jay, clapping the man on the shoulder to reinstate a little normality as he walks past into the rest of the studio, trying not to look like he’s running away. 

He feels like he’s running away, but in the wrong direction, only going deeper into the lion’s den.  Seeing Steve at the coffeepot, he is torn between anxiety and relief.  At least, Steve has already seen him in the hospital even if he did act like a prick the night before. 

Noticing him, Steve turns and immediately frowns.  “Christian, what are you doing here?”

Christian’s feels like there’s ice water in his veins at his best friend’s rejection.  “Just came to hang out,” he answers defensively which isn’t how he wanted this to go. 

“Shouldn’t you be resting at home?” Steve asks, turning more fully towards him. 

“I can rest here,” Christian snaps as he crosses his arms, not thinking about how the move gives him away.

It’s as close to an apology as they get.  To show that he’s serious, he falls back on the couch, putting his boots on the coffee table like he knows Steve hates.  But Steve just continues to stare at him as if trying to see Christian’s weakness.  It’s not a comfortable scrutiny. 

Eventually Steve just shrugs and finishes putting milk and sugar in his coffee.  “You just came to mooch our coffee, didn’t you?  You lazy ass,” Steve finally says with a roll of his eyes. 

Christian smirks, grateful to Steve for just letting it go.  Now that he thinks of it, he gets up and grabs one of the available mugs.  Steve takes a step back so he can get to the coffeepot, but Christian can feel Steve’s gaze on his neck as he pours himself some. 

Miraculously, Steve doesn’t insist on asking about it and instead just goes back to his business and leaves Christian sitting on the couch.  Music flows through the speakers and Christian tries to settle into listening, leaning a chin on one hand and focusing on the music. 

He doesn’t listen though.  As soon as he’s comfortable, his mind wanders back into that basement, like a dark vortex that keeps sucking him down into fear and melancholia.  He tries not to, tries to jerk himself back from those thoughts and he comes back to himself with a shiver.  The musicians are now milling around him as if he’s part of the furniture as he blinks long lashes.  Averting his eyes, he looks down at his mug and absentmindedly reaches for it.  But the ceramic is now cool and there’s almost a film on top of the milky liquid.  He’s staring at it in confusion when he’s startled by Steve calling his name. 

“Christian,” Steve calls out as he’s walking over.  He looks harassed and apologetic.  “God, it’s past lunchtime man, but we were gonna order pizzas if you want some.”

Christian blinks and turns his phone on to see the time.  It’s 1:30pm, meaning that he’s been sitting here for hours and he can’t remember anything.

“Christian?” Steve prompts him again. 

“That’s fine,” Christian mumbles, still confused. 

He eats some of the pizza, particularly since Steve is staring at him.  The blonde musician hovers nearby, glaring at anyone it seems whose gaze lingers too long on Christian.  Some of the musicians milling around are new and all of them are interested in what happened.  Christian can’t really blame them.  If he were on the other side, the curiosity would itch under his skin.  Now that he thinks of it, it’s amazing that Steve hasn’t asked.  He’s not sure that he could resist. 

In the end, Christian leaves before Steve finishes for the day, sneaking out to avoid any questions.  Whatever he hoped to find, he didn’t.  Instead he just felt awkward and put on the spot.  Steve’s scrutiny is just too much to bear. 

Tapping his fingers in a double time rhythm against the steering wheel, Christian tries to convince himself that the grey sedan is not following him.  He can’t even decide if he’s paranoid or if it’s reporters.  Not wanting to battle the grocery store, he stops to get gas and runs inside the convenience store for a six pack of beer and a gallon of milk.  The girl at the checkout is cute, but gone are the flirtatious smiles and instead are pitying silences. 

He takes his bags and hurries back out to his truck.  His ringtone startles him as he’s trying to open the car door and he fumbles to get it out of his pocket.  It surprises him to see Jeff’s name on the ID.  Climbing into his truck, he tosses the phone in the passenger seat, unanswered.  Of anyone, Jeff is the one who understands, who doesn’t either ignore it or pity him.  But still he shouldn’t need Jeff, should just bury it down deep until the fear stops. 

He just wants to be alone.  As soon as he’s home, he’s pulling out one of the beers almost desperately.  After a long pull, he carefully sits down at this kitchen table, breathing deeply.  He just wants to forget for a moment, but he leans a heavy head on one hand, pressing his knuckles into his forehead.  Alcohol is a slippery slope and it only seems like an escape, but his eyes keep tracking over to where the fruit bowl used to be.

Good thing he doesn’t have any fruit, he supposes.  He considers warming up that casserole but he doesn’t really want to.  Now that he’s alone, he doesn’t want to be.  Nothing makes this better. He lifts his head to take another gulp of beer.  Maybe he needs to get laid, like he normally does when he wants to not think.  It won’t be easy with his current motley colored body, but there is David.  Surely David won’t care. 

Mind made up, he abandons the beer and grabs his keys again before he can reconsider.  He gives David a call as he walks across his yard, unsurprised that his friend is at some martini bar, networking supposedly, or getting into women’s pants as Christian likes to think of it.  At least, David’s not at Gina’s because Christian doesn’t want to run into anyone else that he knows, a near impossibility in this town.  Parking his truck, he fiddles with the cuffs of his sleeves as he walks in.  It’s the kind of place that makes Christian feel out of place even if he without these bruises.    

David smiles at his arrival, which is a helluva lot better than the frown he’s gotten all day even if it is sort of fake.  David must have just gotten there because he hasn’t started chatting anyone up and his drink is fresh.  Still it feels like Christian is interrupting.  It’s becoming a familiar feeling.   

“Hey,” Christian says hopping up onto a bar stool and ignoring the way his voice sounds breathless.  He signals for a Jack Daniels immediately. 

“Should you be drinking that?” David asks even as Christian takes a sip. 

“Absolutely,” Christian answers, needing the drink more than he wants to admit.  “I needed to get out of the house.”

David smirks and swirls his own drink in his glass, ice clinking softly in a bar filled with quiet conversation.  Christian takes a breath and then turns his body and leans into David, pressing his chest against David’s shoulder. 

“But I wouldn’t say no to having a drink at your place…” Christian murmurs as husky as he can make it right now. 

The answer is written on David’s face, his hesitance apparent.  Christian averts his eyes as David opens his mouth but he doesn’t get the chance to speak. 

“Fancy seein’ you here,” whispers a familiar gruff voice from Christian’s other side. 

Jeff’s arm is gripping the seat of Christian’s bar stool, forearm lightly pressed against Christian’s lower back, leaning close and wearing a shit-eating grin.  It makes Christian feel good, to be looked at sexually again. 

“What’re you doin’ here?” he shoots back with his own grin.  “Doesn’t seem like your kinda place.”

“You don’t think I’m fancy enough for this place?” Jeff teases.  “I’ll have you know that I am quite cultured.”

Jeff’s suit is rumpled, jacket already lost.  Christian snorts in humor and glances over to see David looking curious. 

“David, this is Jeff, the…” Christian starts but David interrupts. 

“We’ve met,” David says with a small smile for the agent.  “I’m just surprised.”

Christian’s surprised himself, but happy as he tilts his head back to look up at the older man.  Jeff shrugs and takes a sip of his own drink before crowding him further, curling his body over Christian’s as he leans in to Christian’s ear.  

“Can I get you another?” Jeff whispers, hot breath ghosting over Christian’s ear making him shiver. 

Christian slowly picks up his glass, licking his bottom lip before downing the last of the drink.  He’s so focused on Jeff’s reaction that he’s confused at first by the sound of laughter.  Confused, he looks up into David’s amused face. 

David gets up then, clapping Christian on the shoulder and squeezing hard.  “Good for you,” David murmurs, leaning close enough to ghost his own lips over Christian’s cheek.  The approval and affection make Christian smile. 

Turning back to Jeff, Christian asks, “Were you here with someone?”  As soon the words come out of his mouth, he wants to kick himself for ruining the moment.  He doesn’t want to share the man.    

Jeff turns his head and says, “Say hello to Quinn.”

Christian purposefully turns into Jeff’s body to look and sees the younger agent with a beautiful woman already sitting with him.  Quinn shoots him a smirk. 

Turning back around with a laugh, Jeff is watching him with an indulgent hungry look.  It makes Christian look away again and take a deep drink of his new glass of Jack.  But he leans further into the warmth of Jeff’s body. 

“What’d you do today that you couldn’t answer my call?” Jeff asks. 

Christian wrinkles his nose a little, but Jeff doesn’t sound jealous.  It’s carefully casual, like small talk.  “I went to the music studio actually,” Christian answers.  “Just hung out with the guys.”

“With Steve?” Jeff murmurs, and there’s something dark in his voice but Christian doesn’t want to ask about what anyone said when they thought he was dead. 

“Yeah, it’s too bad we couldn’t work on the CD with my team off though,” Christian says, for the first time mentioning the incident. 

Jeff looks at him sadly then and Christian shrugs and takes another drink.  He shouldn’t have said anything.  Fortunately, Jeff seems willing to let it go and not ruin their evening.  Jeff takes a sip of his own drink then. 

“So…any plans for the rest of the night?” Jeff says, as subtle as a heart attack. 

“I don’t know.  Depends on what kinda offer I get,” Christian plays along. 

He’s rewarded by Jeff pressing closer, his voice deep and rough, “Oh, I think you know what I’m offering.”

Christian slyly looks up at the other man through his lashes.  “Yeah, wanna get out of here then?” he whispers, moving in so that their lips are almost touching. 

Jeff is aggressive in a way that Christian’s not sure he’s experienced before.  Jeff’s arm scoops him out of his seat after tossing several bills down.  Jeff doesn’t so much as hold him as crowd him, herding him towards the door.  Christian can’t help chuckling a little. 

“Back to your hotel?” Christian asks, breaking away a little to face the other man, Jeff’s hand keeping ahold of Christian’s bicep. 

Jeff steps forward, keeping them close, his other arm finally wrapping around Christian’s waist.  He goes in for a quick open mouthed kiss that Christian simply opens to before it’s gone.  “Absolutely.”

Jeff’s car is obviously a rental and it’s another sign that Jeff won’t be staying, but it’s never stopped Christian before.  Jeff is staying at a nice chain hotel, the Marriot, Christian thinks, but he’s not really paying attention as they make their way towards the elevators.  Politely, they settle on either side of the cramped space. 

Christian leans back, arms stretched out to either side, resting his weight on the handrail.  It makes his hips push forward, jeans taut over his crotch.  Christian’s oblivious as he watches the numbers, but Jeff’s dark eyes take notice.  The older man slides his shoulders along the wall until he’s close enough to slide a finger into Christian’s belt loop. 

“You better be careful,” he says lowly, tugging Christian’s hips out even further. 

Christian smirks and then moves away, heading backwards out the opening sliding doors.  Jeff releases his hold when they get in the hallway and instead he searches his pockets for his keycard.  As soon as it’s open, Jeff’s pulling the younger man inside. 

Finally, they’re alone and Christian stumbles into Jeff’s mouth.  He’s ravenous, tongue delving deep immediately before he pulls back, but only to focus on his hands trying to unbutton Jeff’s white dress shirt.  He wants everything all at once. 

One of Jeff’s large hands cradles his chin, sliding up to his cheek as he gentles the kiss, little licks of his tongue inside Christian’s mouth, making him want more that Jeff won’t give him.  The other hand is warm on his back, sliding up to cradle his neck and then up into his hair, pulling out his hair tie. 

“Take off your shirt,” Jeff murmurs before he pulls away to finish undoing the two buttons Christian left. 

Christian hurries to unbutton his checked shirt and pull off his tshirt.  It’s only then that he remembers the bruises and cuts.  He hesitates before dropping his shirt to the floor.  He’s so caught up that he starts when he feels Jeff’s touch on his skin. 

Jeff draws his hand gently up the younger man’s torso, drawing up goosebumps in its wake.  Large hands then settle splayed over bruised ribs, thumbs rubbing in small circles, drawing ever inward until they reach dusky peaked nipples.  The muscles in Christian’s stomach jump involuntarily and his mouth opens.  But he doesn’t whine until short nails scratch over the tips. 

Christian whines for more, but Jeff’s moving away again, moving suddenly with the urgency Christian has felt all long.  Jeff’s already toeing off his shoes, fingers pulling at his trousers.  He pulls his pants and boxers down together.  Christian only starting to clumsily undress himself when Jeff sits on the bed. 

Jeff moves to sit against the headboard.  “Get over here,” he growls before piling pillows behind his back. 

Christian flings off his clothes, his dick swinging as he climbs on top, sitting on the other man.  Jeff’s knees are supporting him from behind and Jeff’s hand is curled around his neck, fingers digging into the back of his skull.  He feels cradled as Jeff brings him in for another deep kiss. 

Jeff doesn’t pull Christian’s hair as he sucks kisses down Christian’s neck, simply encourages the younger man to relax back into his hand.  Teeth skim over a collar bone, lick down his sternum before, finally, Jeff’s lips close around one tight bud.  Christian bites his lip though it doesn’t completely silence the whine as he rocks his hips as Jeff sucks. 

“Hnng, fuck, harder,” Christian cries when teeth finally close around the nub.  Rough stubble scratches at sensitive skin as Jeff kisses his sternum again while moving over to the other nipple. 

Reaching behind him, Christian grips onto Jeff’s cock.  It’s an odd angle, but it’s worth it to feel the other man’s fat dick.  He fists it, squeezing the tip, wanting to drive the other man to action.  A sharper bite in retaliation steals his breath.  Jeff laughs, a low rumbling sound as he lifts his face from Christian’s hairless chest.  He arranges Christian’s limbs and then grabs the lube left out on the bedside table. 

“Pretty sure of yerself,” Christian says though his voice has gone breathless and weak. 

Jeff’s only response is to plunge the tip of his finger inside.  “That’s it, open up fer me,” Jeff purrs.  But he draws his finger out, rubbing at the ridged surface for Christian to relax.

Slowly, the finger slides back in and Christian’s mouth goes slack.  He rocks against it, liking how he can move in this position.  It makes it easier to relax, to let that finger fully inside.  His head falls back again and Jeff’s hand is there, supporting his still pained neck. 

Two fingers inside now, stroking until he finds that perfect spot that has Christian crying out and rutting his hips faster against Jeff’s furry belly.  Lifting his head, Christian lifts one hand from Jeff’s knee to reach down to his own hard dick.  He strokes himself lightly with the tips of his fingers on his shaft.  But the sight of the stark white bandage there has his strokes stuttering. 

Not having noticed anything, Jeff distracts him, shifting Christian forward so he can roll the condom on.  Christian’s hands clench hard into flexing pecs, grounding him in the moment and not looking at his wrists, not thinking about the crinkle of the wrapping around his throat. 

All those thoughts are driven from his head as Jeff’s cock pops through the first ring of muscle.   One hand is still supporting his neck while the other comes to grip his hips gently guiding as Christian takes over, thigh muscles straining.  His own weight forces his muscles to give way, let Jeff’s cock in. 

Jeff thrusts up as he sinks down again and then an arm slides around his waist and the hand on his neck pulls him closer.  Christian may be on top but Jeff is still in control of this and the next thrust punches a gasp out of his slack mouth.  Jeff pulls him in further, taking Christian’s nipple into his hot mouth. 

Tilting his hips forward so that each thrust hits his sweet spot, he fumbles his hands to grip the headboard.  Soft hitched moans stir the salt n’pepper strands as Christian is curled around the older man, using the headboard to push back into the thrusts.  His orgasm is an insistent pressure at the base of his spine, sparking up into his gut. 

Christian’s moan is soft and hoarse as he cums over Jeff’s hairy chest.  Muscles shuddering, he collapses down into waiting arms to be cradled against the larger body before Jeff flips them over.  Still Jeff’s thrusts are gentle but deep until the older man is coming with a low groan against the side of Christian’s face. 

Even after, Jeff’s hands never leave him completely.  One-handed, Jeff removes the condom, tossing it in a wastebasket and then gathers the younger man up in his arms so that they are squished together despite the heat on their skin.  Christian doesn’t protest, not even that they should clean up before his cum dries in Jeff’s chest hair.

He falls asleep more easily than he has since before there were ever misplaced things in his home and red cars in his rearview mirror. 

******

It’s too dark for Christian to see, but he knows that there’s someone out there, someone watching him from the dark.  Kicking out his legs, he realizes that he’s trapped, trapped and defenseless and that man is coming for him, coming closer... 

Struggling desperately to get away, he feels like he can’t breathe.  His breath is being squeezed out of him.  He can’t hear anything past his own panting breath.  He can’t hear the man out there in the dark, and he can’t get away, can’t get away…

“Hey, hey,” a soft voice whispers in his ear.  “You’re here with me.  You made it out.  You’re safe, Christian.”

Confused because that’s not _his_ voice, Christian sucks in a surprised breath and then realizes his eyes are closed.  Opening them only leaves him blinded by a bright light. 

“You back with me?” Jeff asks, Christian blinks away tears until he is finally able to discern the man’s face. 

Too embarrassed to answer, he sinks exhausted back into the pillow, casting his eyes at the ceiling as he tries to breathe again.  He just wants a minute to rest.  But Jeff’s hand sneaking over his belly gets him moving, sitting up and swinging his legs over the bed.  He doesn’t want to talk about it.  He doesn’t want the other man’s pity or scrutiny. 

He’s stopped from getting up by Jeff’s arms wrapping around his naked chest like a vice.  Jeff is strong like a bear with her cub, his furred arms pulling the smaller man inexorably back down into the blankets, into Jeff’s embrace.  Unable to escape, his head flops away on the pillow, the only resistance he has left.  He refuses to acknowledge what’s actually happening and Jeff seems fine with that, cuddling around him like he’s just a very stiff teddy bear.

But then Jeff’s thumb is rubbing along his collarbone and Christian’s eyes are inexplicably wet again.  He bites his bottom lip viciously.  Jeff’s weight gets heavier, pressing him into the mattress and the stupid light is still on.  Christian wants to yell, to tell the other man to turn the lamp off, because it helps.  Even with his eyes closed, the light brings him back from thinking of the darkness of that cellar.  It is like a thorn in his side that he needs a nightlight. 

His anger is hard to maintain without Jeff’s participation though, and eventually, Christian goes back to sleep with Jeff’s weight heavy and limp against his back. 

*******

Christian wakes up on his stomach, Jeff now practically lying on top of him.  He slept better, but he still feels groggy and tired.  Most importantly though, his bladder is complaining.  Carefully, he tries to slide out, but Jeff snuffling at the interruption and then just turns over.  In the bathroom, there’s a complimentary toothbrush and he uses it as well.  He figures that he’ll just get dressed and head home for a shower. 

But then Jeff comes in, still looking sleepy and rumpled and sexy.  Jeff doesn’t hesitate before reaching out to cup the back of his neck, lips soft and warm and sloppy as he plants a kiss on Christian. 

“Shower,” Jeff demands with a thick voice before pressing their naked bodies together, one hand reaching down to squeeze Christian’s ass cheek. 

Christian should refuse.  He knows better than to draw these things out.  But for some unknown reason, he simply lets Jeff push him towards the shower.  Automatically, he turns on the water while Jeff brushes his teeth. 

The heat beckons him in and he bows his head, letting the water sluice over his hair as he hears Jeff taking a piss before the curtain moves back with a jingle.  He doesn’t lift his head as Jeff’s hands smooth over his shoulders and then pull him back against a muscular chest.  It’s relaxing.  He can do this. 

Deliberately, he rolls his hips, arching his back so that Jeff’s hardening cock slips between his cheeks.  Then he grabs the soap and turns around.  His soapy hands slide through Jeff’s chest hair as he rubs over Jeff’s nipples and down to his belly.  Avoiding Jeff’s cock, his hands slip down to powerful thighs just before he sinks to his knees. 

Jeff’s cock is hot and wet as it slides into his mouth, and water droplets sticking to his eyelashes as he looks up the expanse of tan skin.  Jeff gently pets his face from temple to jawline before digging his thumb into the hinge of Christian’s jaw, forcing it wider as he cautiously thrusts forward, and then again, less cautiously. 

Christian loses himself in the rhythm of it, letting himself be used, pushed and pulled and listening to the older man’s grunts and groans of pleasure.  It makes him feel good.  All too soon, Jeff pushes him away, abdominal muscles fluttering as hot cum hits his wet chest.  Slumping, he kisses Jeff’s thigh, soft and open mouthed against the rough dusting of dark hair. 

He’s startled when Jeff pulls him up to his feet again, pinning him to the shower wall.  Jeff holds the younger man up with his larger body as he works Christian’s dick relentlessly, pressing close.  Christian can’t feel anything but Jeff as his orgasm races up to meet him. 

Exhaustion follows immediately afterward.  He’s suddenly sleepy, all the anxious nights catching up with him in that moment.  When Jeff moves away, he stays leaning put until Jeff pulls him back under the spray with a satisfied chuckle.  Helpful as ever, Jeff hands him the soap before his fingers are firmly stroking through Christian’s long hair with the hotel shampoo and conditioner. 

Christian enjoys it, but when he’s done, he goes ahead and steps out, leaving the other man plenty of space to wash himself.  He just doesn’t want to pretend that this is something more than it is.  And he doesn’t want Jeff to get used to babying him. 

Feeling more awake, he ties the towel around his waist and starts to gather up his discarded clothing.  For once he’s actually hungry.  Must’ve been all of that activity, he thinks to himself, already planning what he can cook for himself at home. 

“Breakfast?” Jeff asks cheerfully.

The words are so incongruous that Christian doesn’t know how to respond.  He just assumed that this was just a sex thing.  He assumed Jeff felt the same. 

“There’s a Denny’s down the road,” Jeff elaborates given the lack of response. 

Christian only hesitates for a moment more before giving in.  “I know some place better than Denny’s,” he finally says. 

***********  
They slide into a booth at the back of the small diner.  Christian keeps his eyes averted to his menu, self-conscious of both his day old clothes and his injuries.  He doesn’t want to know if the other diners are staring. 

The waitress manages to at least be polite.  She tries to stop her wandering eyes.  But when an awkward silence descends after they’ve ordered, it dawns on Christian that he doesn’t know anything about FBI agent. 

“So when do you go back to, uhh, the FBI base or wherever you’re from?” Christian asks. 

“When I’m done with the investigation,” Jeff says easily.  He opens his mouth to say something else, but Christian interrupts.  He didn’t mean to start a conversation about where this relationship is going. 

“You just go to wherever there’s a new serial killer?” Christian asks. 

Jeff stops, taking a swallow of his coffee.  “Basically.  We have to be asked by local police.  The rest of the time is in the FBI office, looking over files, helping other FBI cases from my desk,” Jeff says with a self-deprecating smile.  “It’s not all excitement.”

Christian allows a smile, falling back in their easy conversation of the night before.  “How’d you get into doing that kinda thing?”

“My Dad was a cop,” Jeff answers, his smile turning wistful.  “I went to college swearing that I wouldn’t be the same, but…in the end, I just wanted to outdo him, I guess.”

Christian laughs and salutes with his coffee cup.  He was the same.  When he was a kid, he wanted to be all kinds of things, an astronaut or a race car driver or a bullrider.  That need to be elsewhere died long before he went to college, though, and he’s accepted it. 

“Must be hard sometimes, working with your family,” Jeff offers. 

Christian huffs a laugh and shakes his head, wet strands of hair in his face that he then brushes back behind his ears.  “You’ve already heard all about me,” he dismisses. 

“Not from you,” Jeff says.  “I get the feeling that they’re set in how they think about things.”

Christian smirks at the other man.  It feels like a long time since he’s really had to introduce himself, met someone new.  It seems nice, the idea of not being defined by the years and years that have gone before. 

The waitress fills up their coffee and brings their food and it’s silent but for eating.  He’s picking up his piece of toast when his wrist twinges, the skin pulling.  He grimaces before he can stifle it. 

“You ok?” Jeff asks, too observant again.  “Stitches starting to dry out?”

“I guess,” Christian says, holding his right wrist in his left hand.  He hasn’t even seen them. 

“Did they say to change the bandages?” Jeff continues. 

Christian shrugs, trying to remember.  He thinks they said to change them after a couple of days and he forgot that it has, in fact, been a couple of days. 

When he looks up again, Jeff is finishing up his toast and taking a last gulp of coffee.  “Why don’t I come over and help you,” Jeff offers.  “It’s hard one-handed.”

There’s no chance to respond when the shadow of a person falls across their table.  He looks up into the warm sad eyes of a woman about his mother’s age but she’s not familiar to him. 

He’s opening his mouth to say something when she speaks.  “Sweetheart, I just wanted to say how dreadful this whole thing has been.  I been watching the news and…” she trails off then, looking over at Jeff like he should know what she’s talking about.  “Well, I am just so glad to see that you’re alright, the papers…”

She’s interrupted in turn by a teenage girl dressed casually and accompanied by a silent boy.  “Are you the guy?  The last victim that survived?” she asks, her voice torn between excitement and wariness even as her boyfriend elbows her in the side. 

Christian still hasn’t recovered enough to say anything when suddenly Jeff stands, pushing the three people away from their table gently and speaking in a low voice.  Unable to hear over the sound of his own indignation, Christian finally stands up himself.  He doesn’t get the chance to speak though, as Jeff grasps his elbow, pulling him out of the restaurant after throwing some bills on the table. 

But their problems don’t stop when they get outside.  They’ve been there long enough for a crowd of reporters to be waiting there for them.  Christian instinctively puts a hand up to cover his face from the cameras following their trek across the parking lot.  It suddenly occurs to him to worry what it must look like for him and the FBI agent to be out to breakfast together. 

The car door closing brings silence from the shouted questions.  Neither of them speak, in fact, Jeff looks actually flustered. 

“It’s probably not a good idea to get your car now,” Jeff finally breaks the silence as he puts the car in gear.  “Best not to give them any more fuel for gossip.”

The words are said with a smirk but Christian is still too shocked to find the humor.  He stays silent with his face hidden as much as possible as the car leaves the lot.   It’s all that either of them have to say as they enter Christian’s house.

“Where’s your first aid kit?” Jeff asks as soon as the younger man is seated at the kitchen table. 

“I’m still surprised you don’t know,” Christian grumbles as he stands up from the table.  “It’s upstairs, I’ll get it.”

“No, I can get it,” Jeff says, pushing him back into the chair.  “Let’s just take the bandages off first and let the skin air.”

Christian stares awkwardly as Jeff kneels in front of him.  He’s confused until Jeff explains, “Gimme your foot.”

Awkwardly, he pushes his chair away from the table and lets Jeff take grab his right foot to place on his knee.  His cheeks start to heat as he watches Jeff rolls up the leg of his jeans for him until the white dressing is exposed.  Jeff’s careful as he unwraps it, but the dressing pulls a little at the stitches anyway.  First one foot is unwrapped and then the other before Jeff stands again and pulls his chair up closer. 

Still too stunned to move, not even to lift his own wrist, Christian watches intently as the dressing is unwound from his wrist.  It’s the first time that he’s seen the actual wound.  For a moment, his eyes lose focus.  It’s dark again and he feels the warm liquid dripping down his fingers, sees only red.  But he blinks and sees only the white wrapping falling away.  The wound is surprising clean.  There’s no blood, just an irritated line around his wrist interspersed with stitches that look spiky.  No wonder it pulled. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s been staring when Jeff asks, “You ok?”   

Blinking up into dark concerned eyes, he answers, “Yeah,” surprised at his hoarse voice.  It’s not the pain that’s bothering him. 

Jeff nods and takes his other hand, being so gentle like Christian might shatter any moment.  That might be the truth.  He can’t make himself be strong right now and simply lets Jeff take over.  The older man looks over both wrists carefully. 

“They look like they’re healing well so far, but you should try not to use them too much,” Jeff cautions.  “Let me grab that kit.”

Christian doesn’t respond, doesn’t even look up from his wrists.  On the one hand, it seems so insignificant, this red line on his wrists after everything.  On the other hand, it feels like a permanent brand on his skin, a reminder, a calling card. 

He forces himself to look away just in time to hear the sound of his front door opening.  This time he feels too sluggish to react when Steve walks in.  What he’s not prepared for is watching how Steve’s eyes track immediately to his uncovered wrists, blue eyes going wide with shock.  Steve can barely pull his eyes away even when Jeff brushes past him with the first aid supplies. 

“Hey, Steve,” Jeff breaks the silence as he takes his seat.

Steve rouses himself to level a glare at the FBI agent and finally steps into the room.  “Are your wrists alright?” Steve asks with eyes again only for Christian.  “They look…” 

Christian doesn’t let him finish that thought, “Yeah, yeah, they’re fine.”  He shrugs as if he could shrug off the concern and awkwardness it brings.  He wishes that Steve hadn’t seen this.  “Just changing the bandages.”

“O-ooh,” Steve stutters, seemingly confused.  “Well, I…Do you need help?”

The blonde takes another step forward, but even if Jeff weren’t already helping, Christian would reject the offer.  Steve still looks so worried, crushed at the sight of Christian’s injuries, like he too can’t see them without thinking of how they got there.  Christian can’t handle seeing how devastated his friends felt. 

“Nah, Jeff’ll…” Christian is too ashamed to finish it.  He doesn’t have the breath to make Steve feel better right now.    

Steve switches his focus to glare at the back of Jeff’s head as the older man gently picks up Christian’s right hand.  “Actually I came over to invite you to dinner tonight.  I invited a bunch of people and thought I’d fire up the grill.”  Steve pauses and seems to be pointedly ignoring Jeff.  “Guess you want me to come back for you up later?”

Christian wants to say no and that makes him feel like a shit.  Before, god just a week ago before this shit happened he was telling himself that he should try to spend more time with his friends.  But now, now he doesn’t even want to see them.  He’s distracted from answering when Jeff swabs antiseptic on the cut.   He can’t hold back the hiss of pain or the way that his other hand clenches into a fist, but he hates the way that Steve flinches.  Why can’t he be more like Jeff who simply continues his ministrations, knowing already that it will hurt a bit?

“Sure, that sounds good,” Christian grits out, irritation with Steve’s response spilling out past the block of his teeth. 

“Ok, I’ll get you at 7:15 then.  I even invited David,” Steve says and then pauses like he’s trying to think of what else to say, but the silence simply lingers awkwardly. 

It’s becoming obvious that he’s not inviting Jeff despite the man being right there carefully not looking up.   Christian frowns, but doesn’t say anything.  Things are awkward enough already without drawing more attention. 

“Well, I guess I’ll be back later,” Steve says sounding annoyed again. 

Christian gives a stiff nod.  He wishes that he could reassure Steve somehow, wipe that hangdog expression off of the other man’s face, but he can’t even deal with himself right now.  He focuses on Jeff instead as his other wrist is picked up and a clean bandage is wrapped around it instead of the soft sound of Steve leaving, the front door closing.    

“Let me look at your neck,” Jeff says softly, already standing. 

Christian obediently leans his head back a little, closing his eyes as Jeff sweeps his hair away.  Jeff’s fingers are gentle as he turns Christian’s head with a hand on his jaw.  He doesn’t know why he’s so comfortable with Jeff looking at his injuries so closely.  The intimacy of it is enough to have him sucking in a small breath.

His breath is stolen in the next moment by a light kiss on the edge of his mouth, before his lips are taken.  It’s soft and slow and when it ends, Christian follows Jeff, blindly seeking more. 

“Your ankles,” Jeff murmurs, a smug smile on his face that makes Christian want to bite at his lips. 

Jeff dabs some more antiseptic on the ankle wounds which don’t seem to be as deep as the wounds on his wrists.  He stays crouched for a moment after he’s finished, fingers massaging the tense muscles of Christian’s calf. 

“Do you want me to stay?” Jeff asks, softly and Christian realizes that the man is trying not to wound his pride.  “Until Steve comes back?”

“No, I’m fine,” Christian says.  Dark eyes continue staring at him nonplussed until he amends.  “Maybe I’ll be up in the music room until he gets here, but I’ll be fine.”

“Just give yourself some time to not be ok,” Jeff says earnestly.  “Even if you have to stay away from your friends for a while.  But I don’t think you have to hide everything from them.”

Christian clenches his jaw so he doesn’t tell Jeff off.  Soon the FBI agent will move on to the next town, the next victim.  What does he know about these people?  They may have fucked but they don’t know each other that well. 

The tension is still there when Jeff surges up to press another kiss on Christian.  Soon it cracks Christian’s resistance and he opens his mouth, letting the other man in. 

“Call me if you need anything,” Jeff says before leaving. 

Finding himself suddenly alone, Christian sighs and stares down at his glass of milk.  He feels suddenly tired, but it doesn’t take long for the anxiousness to set in, that feeling of raised hairs on the back of his neck.  He tries to ignore it, gritting his teeth.  Doesn’t he have other things to worry about?  Steve’s weird behavior and the party tonight and Jeff’s imminent departure from Oklahoma?

Surely Jeff, a fucking FBI agent would have noticed, but Christian just can’t relax, can’t believe that no one is hiding in his house if he doesn’t check for himself.  He slowly stands and goes to check that the front door is locked first and then he makes a careful around of every room, every closet.  He ends in his music room and just collapses on the loveseat there.  He’s just so tired, but he’s too keyed up to lie down and sleep.  His mind seems to be going in a million different directions and he can’t seem to concentrate on any one of them long enough to figure it out. 

With a start, he remembers the paperwork and scrambles off his seat, only then wondering why he’s in such a rush.  Trying to collect his thoughts, he notices the time.  Realizing that it’s after lunch, he takes a deep breath and thinks about what he should do.  After a moment, he heads downstairs, heats up the rest of the casserole. 

He eats it while still standing up, unable to stay still, unable to let himself feel how tired he is again.  He’s shoved a few bites into his mouth when he decides to go ahead and open up a beer.  It’s early, he knows, and he knows that drinking alone is probably the last thing that he should be doing at this point, but he just wants a little peace, a little forgetfulness. 

Christian is brushing his teeth when he hears Steve come in the front door.  Steve’s lost the angry confused look from a few hours ago and is now smiling up as Christian comes down the stairs.  Abashedly flicking his hair out of his face, Christian is embarrassed that he was weak enough to need alcohol even if his friends won’t know. 

And Steve looks so happy, bright blue eyes staring up at him like he’s the princess in some Disney movie, the prom queen coming down to meet her date, like he’s the best thing that Steve has ever seen.  He can’t stop the blush that paints his tan skin and he smoothes his hair again that he left down to help cover his bruised neck, but Steve’s eyes don’t even stray for a moment. 

The conversation stifles in the car though.  Christian realizes that it’s hard for both of them.  Without talking about the killer, what is there to say?  But Steve is trying and, for the moment at least, Christian is grateful to his friend. 

The house seems packed, the heat and noise of a bunch of people that immediately sets Christian on edge, unconsciously keeping to Steve’s side as they move through the house.  He gratefully takes the beer Steve offers him as they head outside.

Gina stops him barely outside the door, pulling him a gentle hug that ends too quickly for Christian to even respond, both hands still wrapped around his beer.  She says his name, “Christian,” looking distinctly uncomfortable in the face of his weakness and she can’t keep her eyes away from his injuries. 

She shakes her head, her mouth opening but she obviously can’t decide what words to let out.  Steve’s hand is on his side, pulling at him like he’s trying to get Christian away.  But he’s distracted when he feels movement on his other side.  He’s spinning towards the presence, heart in his throat even as he sees that it’s just Tim coming up to pat his shoulder. 

Still breathing heavily, Christian lurches into action, letting the two men push him towards the patio set.  He takes the seat furthest from the house which is also closest to the grill so that no one will be behind him. 

‘’Funny seeing you here,” Tim says and Christian can’t help smiling because Tim doesn’t quite fit in at Steve’s house in his nice clothes and ruffled hair. 

Christian doesn’t have time to answer though before David is grabbing the seat across the table.  “Where’s Jeff?” David asks immediately. 

Christian glares a little at the teasing.  He purposefully keeps his eyes away from Steve, not wanting David to get defensive on his or Jeff’s behalf, but he can’t think of how to answer.  Fortunately Steve answers for himself.

“It’s just us tonight,” Steve answers defensive himself. 

Christian presses his lips together in amusement.  Steve can get a little possessive of his toys, but Christian can admit that it would have been a little awkward with Jeff here.  And really he needs to stop leaning on Jeff anyway.

Beth comes by and Christian stands up to get her attention, wanting any reprieve from the awkward conversation he’s in.  He needn’t have bothered though when she throws herself at him.  The dramatic hug makes him uncomfortable and for a moment, it makes him remember how it felt to be alone in the dark, wondering what he would say to them all if he were able to say goodbye.  Then he would have given anything to have just one more minute, but now it seems ridiculous and embarrassing, how much he loves these people, how much he missed them even if it was just a short time.  It makes him feel weak, particularly when he remembers all the men whose loved ones will never get this opportunity. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he tells her when they finally separate.  It feels like the millionth time he’s said the words, because what exactly are a few scars and stitches compared to seventeen deaths?

Her face almost look disappointed.  “Oh, sweetie,” she says, like she’s talking to her young son, but her eyes are teary and her hand moves towards his face. 

He turns his face to the side with a small gasp but she’s just moving his hair out of his face, though she seems uncertain.  She looks at him for a long moment, before she seems to take pity on him and tries a smile as she wipes under her eyes.    

“Can you drink?” she asks, with a sad little laugh.  “Cause you look like you need one.”

With a close mouthed smile, he picks up his beer from the table and gives a cheers move.  “Yeah, I can have a drink.  Not on any painkillers or anything,” he says, all too aware how interested they are in really knowing what happened. 

Beth bites her lip at the mention of his injuries and then she nods almost to herself.  But then she’s hurrying away with a muffled, “I’ll get you another.”

He knows that she just wants to get away from him so that he won’t see her cry.  Trying not to show that it bothers him, he sits back in his chair, leaning back and taking a long swig of his beer.  He avoids looking at his friends, but they’re nice enough to start the conversation back up without him.  For a moment, he just enjoys being outside, the air just slightly chilly but the grill’s warm on his left side.

“Here, have the first steak,” Steve says, as a plate enters Christian line of vision. 

Christian sets the beer down to grab the plate, but it’s not until it’s on the table that he sees it, the steak knife.  Big and long with a wooden handle and serrated edges, it looks nothing like the knife that that man used on him, the knife that Christian stabbed him with, the knife that was Christian’s only hope of escape.  But the sight of it still sends fear like a stab in the heart, vision darkening around the edges. 

With a desperate flail, he knocks the knife off the table with his elbow, almost knocking over his whole plate in the process.  Steve reacts immediately, one hand grabbing the plate while the other lands on Christian’s shoulder.  But Christian flinches away from the contact, pushing his chair out, his breath sawing out of his mouth. 

“I’m not hungry, not…in the mood for steak,” Christian blurts out, backing away from Steve as if from a predator.  “My throat…bathroom” he says, using the first excuse that comes to him as he turns and runs away.    

He runs into the house, but there seem to people everywhere.  He catches sight of Riley near the bathroom and abruptly runs up the stairs to Steve’s room, slamming the door behind him.  Being alone helps, but it still feels like there are tight bands around his chest, squeezing until there’s no air getting in.  He falls back onto Steve’s bed, knowing that the blonde won’t mind.

Struggling to breathe, he claws at the unmade bed until his fingers found a pillow and he pulls it to his face, grounding himself in the here and now.  He doesn’t know how long it takes for him to calm down, but eventually it feels like he can breathe again and the relief is palpable.  Sitting up makes his head spin, but he knows he’s been gone too long and he tries to stand up immediately, using the wall to make it to the door.

Wiping a hand over his face, Christian opens the door to see Steve on the other side.  He’s surprised that the blonde walked away from the grill instead of sending someone. 

“Are you alright?” Steve asks without preamble. 

Christian rolls his eyes and Steve laughs and it feels good, normal.  But then Steve is moving closer, coming into the room, bumping Christian’s arm with his chest to move the brunette.  Steve closes the door again, keeping the two of them in the room, alone, and then slings an arm around Christian’s shoulders.   

After a moment’s hesitation, Christian relaxes into the hold.  Steve hasn’t really touched him since the hospital and he wants things to go back to normal.  But then Steve’s face is becoming serious, blue eyes glittering with emotion.

“Look, Christian, I just want to say I’m sorry…” Steve starts. 

But Christian is already struggling against the hold, not interested in hearing any apology.  As if any of this is Steve’s fault, as if it’s anyone else’s fault besides that sick bastard’s…Christian’s shakes his head hard and then pulls away from the other man and towards the door. 

This time, though, Steve doesn’t let him go, instead grabs him, hands holding around his ribs.  Steve’s hands tighten in the silence that grows between them as Christian looks anywhere but at his friend. 

“Just let me say it,” Steve says, his voice low and forceful.  “I am sorry that I didn’t believe you, that I didn’t _do_ anything.”

Then Steve is hugging him, so suddenly and so fiercely that the air leaves Christian with a whooshing sound.  It takes him a moment before his own arms come up to hug his best friend back just as fiercely.  It isn’t until this moment that he realizes how much he’s wanted this, wanted comfort from his friends and family, wanted _Steve_ to see that he needs this.  Soon he’s clinging to Steve more than Steve is clinging to him, his breath shuttering around of him as he rests his chin on the other man’s shoulder.  Steve seems surprised a moment before his arms gentle. 

Christian feels like he could stay there forever, but he knows that it’s already gone on for too long to be normal.  With a deep breath, he lets Steve go and tries for a smile as he murmurs, “Well, now you’ve said it and you don’t need to say it again.”

There’s a burning behind his eyes as Christian forces himself to turn away, opening the door, suddenly desperate to get out of this claustrophobic room.  He’s not expecting the warm hand that settles on his lower back as he’s going down the stairs, but he forces himself to ignore it.  He likes that Steve is behind him, that no one can sneak up on him now because Steve has got his back.

It’s great until they’re back at the table and Steve moves away from him.  “I’ll get you another steak,” Steve says, turning back to the grill, finally, but Christian isn’t interested. 

There’s already another knife on the table at his seat.  Christian’s good mood vanishes in a flash as he mumbles, “No thanks.  I’m just gonna get another beer.”

He pointedly doesn’t look to see the disappointed look on Steve’s face.  It hurts to turn away after their previous closeness, but he still can’t explain about the knife.  He’d prefer to just not eat the damn steak.

Inside seems less crowded, maybe because most people are eating steak outside, but he’s glad to see David’s lower half sticking out of the refrigerator. 

Re-emerging with a beer, David starts to smile, but hesitates once he gets a good look at his friend.  “You ok, Chris?” he asks, handing over the beer. 

Christian takes a long pull from the bottle and then answers, “Fine.  Well…” Christian hesitates, determining how much truth he should tell.  “It’s just a lot of people, with a lot of questions.”

David looks surprised at the honesty and that’s what Christian wanted.  It’s also a subtle request not to be asked any questions.  David nods after a moment and then ducks back inside the fridge for another beer. 

Christian clenches his jaw and his hand around the bottle, hating this whole thing so much.  He starts to lift the bottle to his lips again when there’s an unexpected touch to his shoulder. 

It’s like an electric shock goes through his whole body, the fear as sharp as a knife and his vision suddenly goes black.  It’s only a moment and then he’s gasping in a breath like after being underwater and he sees David now in front of him, staring at him. 

“Chris?” David asks, his hand inches from touching Christian’s shoulder but it doesn’t. 

Christian suddenly realizes he’s shaking as he tries to clench his fists and then he realizes that he must have dropped the bottle even as he sees Tim on the ground picking it up, cleaning up after him. 

“Wha…?” Christian starts to ask.  The hand lands on his shoulder then and Christian pulls away hard.  “Don’t.  I’m fine.”

David’s stare is hard, but he lets Christian go.  Tim stands up and smiles sheepishly at him.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Tim explains before he’s moving away to the trashcan. 

Letting out his breath in a whoosh, he realizes what must have happened.  Tim just snuck up on him, put a hand on his shoulder and he almost had a heart attack.  Jesus, fuck, Christian thinks. 

Shaking his head, he steals the beer from David’s hand, taking a quick drink.  He glares at his friend, daring the bigger man to say something. 

“I was just asking about the paper,” Tim continues.  “Your Dad came by asking about the foal.”

It feels odd, to be so out of the loop, to have just lost time like this.  He should have already filed the paperwork, he would have.    Now he has to fight to even be told what’s happening at the farm.

“Yeah, I believe he filed the paperwork while you were in the hospital,” Tim says with a knowing look like he knows Christian’s defensive thoughts.  “He’s just trying to help.  They were so worried.  The FBI came and basically confirmed a parents’ worst nightmare.”

“I can still do paperwork,” Christian gripes, taking another gulp of his beer to show that he doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. 

Tim is still looking at him with fatherly concern that he wishes he could wipe off the older man’s face.  But David fortunately steps in, starting talking about some story about his hot office coworker that Christian isn’t even listening to.  It’s just nice not to be the center of attention.  Tim even laughs. 

But it doesn’t last.  The party is breaking up and everyone seems to have found him to say goodbye.  Riley looks hesitant and scared and young, Jared looks like someone crushed his dog as he tries to give Christian a gentle hug, even Jensen who already saw him in the hospital seems unsure where to put his hands.  David helps still, preventing the mood from getting too serious in that affable way that he has, but soon enough Tim and David are leaving as well. 

Christian stays in the kitchen, waiting for Steve to come to him.  He picks at the other food that made up dinner, salad and baked potatoes since he didn’t eat the steak.  Not hearing Steve come in, he’s surprised when a plate of steak is placed in front of him, the steak already cut up into small pieces. 

“Thought it might be easier to eat,” Steve says with a shrug like it’s not a big deal if Christian blows him off again. 

Christian looks away not sure how he feels about Steve cutting up his food for him.  But he’s hungry and it’s right in front of him so he forks a bite when Steve tilts his head back to drink his beer.  When he tries to fork a second bite however, his wrist twinges, the stitches dry and pulling.  Sucking in a breath, he drops his fork to the plate.    

“Wrist hurting?” Steve asks as he catches Christian’s arm. 

Looking up, Christian watches in fascination as Steve steps closers, fingers rubbing the sore muscles in his forearm.  The moment feels heavy with anticipation somehow, more intimate than that of friends. 

“Yeah,” Christian forces out, before he shakes himself.  “Stitches are annoying,” he explains with a grimace. 

Steve nods distractedly, but he doesn’t let go of Christian, still stroking the skin on the inside of his arm delicately.  It makes it hard for Christian think. For a second he thinks that Steve might just lean in and kiss him. 

Christian is the one that moves away, swallowing so hard that it makes his throat hurt again.  Deciding he’s done eating, he raises his beer bottle to his lips with his free hand.  He’s lost count of how many that he’s had, but he’s only barely tipsy.  He won’t let Steve see him get drunk at the very least. 

“You wanna just sleep here tonight?” Steve offers quietly. 

It’s not unusual, but with his hand still resting against Steve’s warm chest, it feels different.  Still Christian just nods, unsure how to answer, unsure if he wants to break the spell that’s fallen over them.  But he doesn’t want his friend to know that he doesn’t want to go home.    

Steve is all hands as he leads Christian up the stairs as if Christian is much drunker than he is.  Christian lets it continue because he has a feeling that it’s Steve who needs the contact.  The musician’s hands push him to sit on the guest bed, giving his shoulders a reassuring squeeze before moving away. 

“I’ll get you some sleep pants,” Steve says, coming back quickly from his own room next door.  He hands them over but doesn’t leave.  “I know how your parents must feel.  It makes me feel better to have you under my own roof, to know that you’re still here.”

Christian doesn’t want to talk about it.  He just stares tiredly up at Steve who leans with arms crossed against the doorway.  Confused, he lies back on the bed, dark hair fanning out against the comforter.  He keeps his eyes on Steve and wonders belatedly if the other man will see it as an invitation.  He wonders whether he wants Steve to. 

Steve doesn’t.  He snorts at Christian, apparently thinking the other man drunk and then says a soft good night, closing the door on his way out.  Christian doesn’t know how he feels about that as he turns his face to look around the room.  It feels better here than in his own bed, better still that he knows Steve is just one room over.  Despite how tired he feels in his body though, his mind doesn’t seem able to settle enough for sleep. 

Slowly, he pulls himself up and changes then walks to the bathroom down the hall.  Steve’s door is closed but there’s an extra toothbrush still in packaging on the counter.  Used to be that he was here enough that he had his own toothbrush left here, but he just hasn’t had the time. 

**************

But sleeping at Steve’s doesn’t stop the nightmares and waking in an unfamiliar room only makes it worse.  In his confusion, he falls out of the bed, his legs still tangled in the sheets.  He’s whimpering when he realizes where he is and tries to be quiet, not wanting to wake his friend but it’s harder than he’d like.  He’s sweating and trembling and biting his lip as he tries to listen for Steve coming to check on him. 

After a moment where he doesn’t hear anything but his own harsh panting breaths, he sits up, angrily trying to tear the sheets from his legs and only managing to tangle himself further.  Shaking in anger now, he stops to get himself under control, his hands tugging through sweat damp hair.  Then he huffs out a loud breath and manages to release his legs and get up.  Standing and looking at the bed makes him feel exhausted but he certainly can’t go back to sleep now. 

He decides to take a shower instead, even though he has to put back on his sweaty sleep clothes.  Still not feeling sleepy, he can’t think of anything else but to watch tv downstairs.  Steve’s got a leather recliner which is just heaven as Christian settles into it.  The channels are all infomercials which is annoying at first but then he kinda gets into a program about very sharp kitchen knives. 

He wakes with a touch to his face and is smacking the hand before he opens his eyes.  Awareness hits him like a punch.  He’s covered with a blanket but not on a bed and he’s ripping the thing off of him and throwing it across the room before he registers Steve’s voice. 

“What the fuck?” Christian says breathlessly.  His flailing limbs finally manage to push down the leg rest of the recliner and he scoots forwards and drops his head in his hands.  Why the fuck would Steve cover him with a blanket?  Steve knows about that morning, Christian called him.  But it’s apparently easy for Steve to forget what happened, he thinks bitterly. 

“Jesus, Chris,” Steve starts, sounding almost as freaked out by Christian’s outburst.  “What?  What’s wrong?” 

“You fucking scared me, man,” Christian growls, not looking up.  “Don’t sneak up on people.”

Christian hates this.  Just like that whatever intimacy they forged last night is gone.  He suddenly misses Jeff, the way that the agent doesn’t need explanation of his weird behavior.  Jeff knows what went on in that cellar and doesn’t need Christian to spell it out. 

“What are you doing down here anyway?” Steve asks, trying to change the subject. 

“No reason,” Christian says standing up.  He’s ready to go upstairs and grab his pants.  Maybe he can call Jeff. 

“I made breakfast,” Steve offers, stopping the brunette in his tracks. 

The sigh explodes from his chest before Christian can stop it.  He feels like a dick immediately even without seeing the expression he knows is on Steve’s face, and suddenly he can’t refuse.  So he turns back around, trying to summon a smile for his best friend. 

Steve doesn’t seem to notice his reticence and eagerly goes back into the kitchen where he’s made Christian’s favorites, pancake and bacon.  “Is it ok?  For your throat, I mean, the bacon…”

“It’s fine,” Christian cuts off the rambling.  “It’s really not a big deal anymore.”

He can see the way that Steve’s blue eyes track immediately to his throat with a disbelieving look but fortunately Steve doesn’t mention it.  Christian just wants to eat the breakfast in peace.  He definitely feels like he’s woken on the wrong side of the bed this morning. 

“So whaddya wanna do today?” Steve asks, his mouth full of pancakes.  “We can work on the music at least, of that new song maybe?  Or hey, we could go fishing?  How ‘bout that?” he says, getting more excited like he’s come up with the perfect idea.  “I’ll just grab those old poles that I’ve been storing, nothing fancy, not like fly fishing.”

Christian frowns, “I don’t know.  I’m not sure I should…” Christian obfuscates.  He’s not really sure why he doesn’t want to.  He loves fishing and it’s been a long time.  There hasn’t been time lately and the weather is actually perfect today, not too hot and not yet too cold for him.  He’s just not interested.  He’s prefer being alone. 

Steve looks confused and upset.  “C’mon, let’s do something.  Or, I mean, if you don’t feel like it, we can just stay here and watch tv on the couch.”

Christian knows that there’s no way of getting out of here now.  Steve’s already convinced that he’s upset at something the blonde musician has done and there’s no way to tell him how untrue that is.  He feels guilty for even wondering if he couldn’t just make it up to his friend later. 

Ruthlessly, he pushes away the thought and tries to school his expression into something less dour.  “Yeah, whatever it is you want to do today,” he says trying a smile that he knows must look pathetic. 

Steve notices certainly but seems to think his enthusiasm will win Christian over.  He happily packs a cooler with turkey sandwiches, water, and beer, and then outfits Christian in socks and boots and a sweatshirt and cap. 

Not saying much, Christian stares moodily out the window while Steve keeps up a commentary the whole drive about how he came across these old-fashioned poles and it’s really just an excuse to drink beer out on the lake with a buddy.  He smiles at Christian as he says it, but Christian pretends not to see.

They rent the tiniest little dinghy, not caring at all about comfort and head out.  Christian would normally be pretty insistent on catching enough for dinner, but today he can’t be bothered.  And Steve is too concerned with Christian to really concern himself with the fishing.  He’s particularly concerned about Christian’s beer consumption. 

They’ve been out there maybe an hour when Steve starts to fidget and Christian knows that the peace is about to end.  Unfortunately, he can’t get away without diving off this boat, so he simply watches with anticipation as Steve takes a breath and then leans forward over his knees.    

“How are your injuries really?” Steve finally starts. 

Christian immediately stills at the intrusive question but he does take a minute to come up with a real answer.  “Fine,” he finally says.  “Stitches come out Monday.  They’re just annoying really.”  Christian can’t help looking away then, focusing on the expanse of water before him, eyes distant in a way they have been a lot recently. 

Steve licks his lips nervously and continues after a second of silence.  “Listen.  I know that you don’t want to talk about it, about what happened,” Steve takes a shaky breath himself and Christian can’t help looking over.  He’s transfixed by the earnestness he sees there.  “It’s just hard not knowing what happened to you, not knowing…when the FBI came and said that you were kidnapped and we didn’t know, didn’t know what was happening, didn’t know if we’d ever see you again or if the FBI would find you in time or anything.”

“You’re right, I don’t want to talk about it,” Christian murmurs, his voice soft as he forces the sound past the lump in his throat. 

“I don’t need to know everything,” Steve says, his voice taking on a harsher, pleading tone as he leans ever closer.  “I just…were you alone?  Were you conscious?  The papers say he hung a noose around…your neck, and he waited for the men to choke themselves.”

Christian snorts and puts a hand over his mouth as if he can keep in all other sounds.  Saying it like that makes it sound so simplistic, so easy as if it wasn’t horrifying every single minute, waiting to die and unable to decide if it would be worse to die alone and in the dark from his own weakness or to be murdered with that man’s eyes the last thing that he saw. 

“Did he just leave you there alone?” Steve asks, his voice soft like Christian is some little girl. 

Christian clenches his jaw in response to the soft tone and then simply lifts the left side of his shirt in response, exposing the bruising there.  “He tried to hurry it along some,” he says resentfully.  “Then he’d leave us alone for a while,” Christian turns his face away again, though it’s easier talking about this in the collective, as what happened to _them_ rather than to him.  “He waited for us to just fall asleep or pass out or just trip, the fucker.”

The pejorative just slips out, but it’s the first time that he really lets himself feel anger towards the man that did this to him, to the others.  Fear and shame have been in the forefront of his mind instead. 

“I’m angry at him,” Christian says stunned into saying his realization out loud.  He lifts his face to looks at Steve in embarrassment at the stupidity of what he just said.  “I mean, of course I’m angry, I…”

Pressing his lips together, he goes silent but Steve leans forward, hand grasping at Christian’s knee as the only part of the brunette that he can reach.  Steve doesn’t act like it’s stupid at all.  “What do you mean?”

Christian shakes his head.  “I killed him, Steve.  I killed someone and I know that he was a monster… _I know_ more than anyone, but…”

 Steve seems to get it like nobody else does and then Steve is kneeling in front of him and hugging him around his knees trying to get his attention.  “Of course, you’d be upset.”

“People think that it’s so great or they’re fucking proud,” Christian growls now that the flood gates have opened.  “But I just feel sick.  This is the first time that I’ve been angry when thinking about what he did.  And even thinking that makes me feel guilty.”

“Christ,” Steve exclaims, moving even closer to grab at Christian’s forearms. 

“I was just waiting there in the dark to die and I hated him.  And I _knew_ , I knew there had been others,” Christian continues, his voice thick with emotion.  “But now, I keep seeing his eyes after I…after I stabbed him.”

“It’s ok,” Steve says and Christian snorts in anger and annoyance.  How can it possibly be ok?  But Steve continues.  “It’s ok to be angry and sad _and_ guilty.”

Christian wants to say something but he hesitates.  Steve isn’t like his Dad.  If anyone could understand regretting that kind of choice that it would be Steve.  He keeps his mouth shut but turns his face away. 

It takes him another moment to speak.  “Thanks,” he says and he can see the surprise on Steve’s face.  “I guess I just needed somebody to understand.”

Steve nods though Christian can’t tell if what he said even made sense.  But as he looks back at Steve’s concerned eyes, he feels for the first time that he’d like to know what it was like on the other side of things. 

“When did you know?” Christian asks hesitantly, trying not to sound egotistical.  “I mean, did my parents call you or did…?”  He stops himself from saying the police. 

“Your parents,” Steve answers and his own voice sounds hoarse now as he sits back in his own seat, though he still leans forward.  “They called when you didn’t show up for work the next morning.”

Christian flinches and swallows hard, suddenly hearing that man’s voice in his head, asking if he had plans the night he was taken.  He remembers the fear he felt then knowing that he could be long dead before anyone noticed him missing. 

Steve doesn’t seem to notice, looking down at his hands as he continues talking.  “They woke me up.  I met them over at your house, they insisted when I couldn’t find anyone who saw you the night before.”  Steve chokes a laugh.  “I was so angry at you.  I thought you had gone home with someone and were just being a dick letting us worry.”

Christian chokes out a self-effacing laugh and it surprises Steve into looking up at the other man.  “I told your mom that it probably had to be 48 hours for a missing person, but she called the police immediately.  The FBI were already there and they came over immediately.  That’s when we knew.”

 Christian stares as his friend starts showing his own breakdown.  “It was like a nightmare,” Steve says, his voice tight and suddenly high.  “Like it couldn’t be real.  You weren’t sleeping it off at some guy’s house.  You weren’t in a car accident, as horrible as that would have been.  You were taken, held by a murderer, probably being tortured…”

Steve trails off then like there are things he can’t make himself say, just like there are things that Christian can’t say, because to say those things would make them too real, would bring them out of his nightmares and into the light. 

“I know that you’re fine,” Steve says thickly, wiping his eyes though Christian didn’t see any tears fall.  “You’re alive and here, with me, but I can’t help wondering what happened to you.  It seemed a lifetime…”

Christian interrupts.  “It was a lifetime.  It was a lifetime thinking I’d die and never see you again…”

The last of his words are cut off as Christian suddenly gets dizzy.  It’s too hot and the sun’s too bright and his heart is the only sound he can hear, too loud as it pounds in his ear.  He throws himself to the side of the boat, landing on his knees to lean over and puke into the lake. 

Steve is quick to follow, grabbing onto Christian’s hips to prevent the boat from flipping.  Dragging in a big breath of air as soon as the heaving stops, Christian flinches away from the touch on his forehead at first, but then he slumps into the comforting hand.  Steve curls himself around Christian’s back, though their bodies don’t touch. 

“God, I’m sorry,” Steve whispers urgently and Christian is too out of breath to say anything.  “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

Christian shakes his head which is a mistake as his head continues spinning.  But he feels like it was good to talk about it, despite his sudden nausea.  It feels good for Steve to know, even if it’s just a little of the chaos swirling in his head.  Still, after a moment, he moves away, turning to fall into sitting on his butt. 

His eyes stay closed while Steve stands up until something cold touches his shoulder.  Christian takes the bottle of water gratefully to wash his mouth out, spitting over the side again.  Only then does he stand up and go back to his seat.  Steve watches from his own seat, hand moving over his mouth and chin, seemingly lost in his own remembered horror.  It makes Christian feel a little better, to see Steve still obviously affected. 

Eventually, Steve gets his pole and then makes a show of casting the line off the opposite side of the boat.  “Guess the fish have been scared away from that side,” Steve says. 

It’s not much, but it breaks the weight of the silence around them.  They end up moving the boat away and talking about baseball for a while. They don’t catch a damn thing for dinner and Christian takes that as a sign that it’s time for him to leave.  Things still feel heavy between them, different somehow. 

He contemplates calling Jeff as he eats soup for dinner.  He likes Jeff, the way his rough hands feel on his skin, the way that Jeff doesn’t need to be told what’s wrong with him.  But once again, Christian thinks he’d rather have the remembrance of Steve’s smaller, softer hands on him today. 

*****

The next morning, Christian is ready to go to his doctor’s appointment and finally get his damn stitches taken out.  He’s putting on his boots and hopping down the stairs when Steve walks in. 

“Hey,” Christian says, straightening up.  “I have a doctor’s appointment actually, though…”

“I know,” Steve says with a smirk.  “I told you I’d pick you up.”

“Didja?” Christian asks, truly confused about when they had that discussion. 

“I knew you weren’t listening,” Steve huffs good-naturedly.  “C’mon, let’s go.”

Christian hesitates, his foot almost missing the next step.  Then he remembers his truck is still in that bar’s parking lot.  “Fine,” he says, hurrying out the door and letting Steve lock up. 

Despite their clearing of the air on the boat, the ride is uncomfortable.  The injuries feel like a physical presence between them.  Christian wants the stitches out, they’re miserable.  He wants to be healed, but he is suddenly afraid of it too.  As if once there is no physical sign on him then the injuries on the inside will only be more apparent. 

His leg taps uncontrollably as he waits first in the waiting room and then in the patient room.  He spends almost no time with the actual doctor.  It’s a nurse who takes out his stitches and she smiles at him sympathetically when he flinches.  She applies steristrips over the wounds instead and checks the shallower ones on his back and chest.  The doctor only gives the wounds a simple once over and then gives him the paperwork for physical therapy. 

“Is that really necessary?” Christian can’t help asking.  “I can exercise them myself.”

The doctor’s smile is incredibly patronizing as he finally looks up from his paperwork and over at Christian.  “It’s for the best.  You don’t want to lose any range of motion, and it’ll be over before you know it.”

Christian scowls but the man is gone almost before he has the chance to argue further.  It’s not like he really expected a better answer. 

He throws himself back into the passenger seat of Steve’s truck.  “Ugh, take me to my car.  That was a fuckin’ waste of time,” he says, rubbing his forearms a little but trying not to scratch. 

“You don’t want to come to the studio today?” Steve asks, looking down at Christian’s wrists like he wants to slap Christian’s hands away. 

Christian’s blue eyes blaze at the too casual question.  It’s obvious that Steve just wants to keep an eye on him.  He can’t just blow off his responsibilities even if he is injured.  His temper starts to flare.  “I can’t.  I need to go by the stable.”

Steve frowns as he turns the wheel.  “Christian, if you’re thinking about working…”

“I am going to work,” Christian snaps and then tries to temper his voice and his anger.  “I’m fine and I won’t even lift anything that heavy,” he concedes reasonably.

“I’ll just hang out with you today then,” Steve says indignantly. 

“What?  Why?” Christian asks, anger returning with a vengeance.  “You have work.  And how will I get home?”

“I’ll just drive you back,” Steve says too helpfully.  “Or your Dad can.”

“Dammit, Steve,” Christian growls.  “I’m not a fucking child and I don’t need you watching over me.”

“What do you want me to say?” Steve says, his voice rising too.  “That I’m worried for you?  Fucking Christ, you almost died…”

“But I didn’t…”Christian hisses, but he can’t figure out exactly what he wants to say.  It feels suddenly like this isn’t about his recent trauma at all, but how Steve was always pressuring him about the CD.    “This is my fucking job, _my life_ , and you’d better get used to it already.”

Christian is practically out of the car before it’s stopped.  He’s striding away towards the barn, seeing Steve get out of the car hanging his head in frustration.  Christian is expecting Steve to get back in his car and drive away, run away from the confrontation like he normally does. 

He doesn’t see his Dad as he enters the cool darkness of the stable, light only filtering in from in between the slats, hazy with the dust in the air.  The dark mustiness already has Christian breathing harder, reminding him of another place, but he doesn’t have time for this weakness.  He just needs to get started working and he’ll be fine.      

Thinking to put a lead on one of the horses, he heads to the back wall but he’s struck dumb at the sight of the ropes hanging there.  Suddenly, he’s viewing it as if from a movie, his vision seemingly magnified as he stares at the ropes in the shadows.  The fear makes him frozen and then he’s clawing at his throat, desperate to get the rope off of him, desperate to escape, to _live_ …

Steve enters the barn just as Christian collapses with his hands at his own throat.  He yells out the other man’s name, but it only makes Christian more terrified.  Lashing out with one fist, Christian then scrambles to get his back to the wall.  Crouching to make himself smaller, Steve moves forward with hands outstretched only to have his own name called. 

It’s Jeff who is entering the barn with Mrs. Kane right behind him.  But Steve only spares them a glance before his attention is back on his friend.  Christian is pulling his knees to his chest, making himself as small as possible.

Christian’s head snaps up as Jeff takes a step closer.  He sees again those dark eyes and he remembers them.  He thinks they saved him last time…last time.  Slowly sound filters back in and he can hear the man’s gruff voice saying his name.  But it’s his mother that blue eyes finally focus on when she takes an aborted step forward, crying out his name only to immediately cover her mouth with a hand.  She’s clutching a blanket to her chest with the other hand and looks horrified of him.  Jeff’s large tan hand wraps around her arm, keeping her from moving forward. 

But it’s Steve who’s suddenly by his side, spreading the blanket over Christian’s shoulders like a tent, like a hiding place just for the two of them.  His hands sneak underneath the blanket, rubbing over Christian’s shoulders and lifting Christian’s chin to see the marks on his tan neck.  Christian is suddenly grateful that it’s Steve, Steve who knows him and knows that he doesn’t want everyone to see. 

He doesn’t ask questions when Steve’s arm dips further down his back and grips around his waist.  His legs seem to still work as Steve pulls him up on his feet.  The blanket now seems to cover both of them and the next time he blinks he’s being pressed to sit on the couch.  Steve is still pressed close but his eyes are drawn slowly upward to his momma holding out a mug. 

Christian tries to rouse himself for her, but Steve is already there, his weight heavy against Christian’s side.  Steve is already there, guiding a warm mug into his hands.  But Steve doesn’t let go even after Christian’s hands are steady.  Numb, Christian stares at the other man as Steve leans in and blows on the drink before pushing it towards Christian’s lips.  Slowly, Christian takes a sip, recognizing his momma’s herbal tea that she’s already trying to get him to drink. 

“Are you alright?” Steve asks, keeping his voice low. 

Christian swallows the liquid in his mouth and nods, beginning to feel more awake.  But then Jeff answers for him. 

“It is normal to have these kinds of flashbacks at first,” Jeff offers, “and to be frightened of things that remind you of the traumatic event.”

Christian shakes his head a little at the idea that it’s normal for him to be freaking out, but no one is paying attention to him.  He looks up when his momma speaks though. 

“He can stay here then, until he feels better,” she says. 

And he knows that she means well, but the way that she says it makes him feel like a recalcitrant child.  He’s tensing already to have a fight, when Steve’s arm squeezes him tight. 

“No, I can stay with him.  I’ll take him home,” Steve says. 

Christian is just aware enough to shoot a glance at Jeff, feeling suddenly weird about the situation but Jeff isn’t looking at him.  Jeff is looking at Steve and Steve is looking right back. 

Christian lets himself be bundled out of the house and into Steve’s car, only too happy to get away.  He stays silent most of the ride, now completely mortified by the entire experience much less that everyone saw, that Steve saw.  His parents are undoubtedly freaked right now.  But how can he reassure them?  How is he going to work if he can’t even be in the barn without going to pieces?

And then there’s Steve, he thinks as he looks at the other man out of the corner of his eye and licks his lips.  Now he can see that Steve really has gone out of his way to help him since it happened.  But it can’t last.  This isn’t going to go away in a week or maybe even a month, and what then?  And that’s not even considering the problems they had well before any of this.  He’s not going to suddenly have tons of time to spend with Steve, not going to be able to spend as much time as Steve wants at the studio or staying up late with them at the bar.   

He’s practically vibrating with nervous energy as he makes his way into his house.  It makes him stop in the doorway of his own house, a sudden powerful feeling of eyes on him as soon as he crosses the threshold.  Steve moves past him, hand reaching out to grab Christian’s shoulder as the blonde passes by.   

Steve speaks first.  “Jesus, he was in here,” he breathes.  “It never occurred to me that, of course, you’d be afraid afterward.  Jesus, he was in your house and of course, you’d be afraid,” he says, trying to pull Christian into a full hug. 

But Christian resists.  It’s too much, Steve’s words, too much like pity.  He pushes Steve away.  “You don’t know,” he hisses, trying not to raise his voice this time.  “You have _no_ idea.”

“I’m sorry that I don’t know what to do, how to help you,” Steve whispers, his voice suddenly low and intimate and his eyes intense on Christian’s face. 

“You think you can just hug me and things will be better?” Christian asks haughtily.  “It’s going to keep happening.  And this house!  Every time that I come inside I feel like I have to check every single inch of it to make sure that nothing’s been moved, that he’s not _here_!”

Christian laughs, half hysterical and definitely yelling now but he evades the hand that Steve brings up to steady him.  Instead, he runs half runs half stumbles into his kitchen.  “It’s not some bout of nerves,” he admits as he steadies himself on the counter, turning his face away from Steve.  “It’s terror.  I can’t even sit on my couch anymore.  I can’t touch that blanket that my Nana left me.”

Suddenly filled with rage, at himself, at Steve, at what’s become of his life, he lifts his head and rips open the door to the cabinet.  Grabbing the reamer, he hurls it against the far wall.  The crack shocks Christian, but it must goad Steve into action as hard hands are suddenly gripping his shoulders. 

“Christian!” Steve cries.  “Calm down.”

Christian jerks back, surprised when Steve doesn’t let go.  It doesn’t stop the vitriol, though his voice becomes softer, more focused.  “Steve, just leave me alone,” he says, ignoring how pleading his voice sounds.  He’s just tired of this.  “You just…you’re going to go back to the studio and I’m going to have to go back to work at the farm, and we just…nothing will be different,” he finishes stupidly. 

“Everything’s already different,” Steve whispers intensely and then his hands are pulling Christian closer. 

It happens too fast, Christian thinks, too fast for him to stop it when Steve’s mouth is on his and then there’s no way to stop it, no way to take it back and pretend that he doesn’t know what Steve’s mouth feels like now.  Now he can’t get enough. 

His hands are already underneath Steve’s shirt when he thinks that this is a terrible idea.  “No, no, no, no,” he mumbles halfheartedly pushing the other man away.  Steve only allows a bit of space between them, just enough that they can look into each other’s eyes though Steve’s keep flickering back to his lips. 

Steve seems to rally himself before whispering, “Are you alright?”

“What?” Christian asks, clearly not expecting those words.  “No, I’m not alright.  We shouldn’t…”

Anything else he might have said is swallowed by Steve’s mouth.  They’re done with talking as Steve surges forward, making him stumble back a step.  He reaches out automatically to cup Steve’s face, but quickly they’re sliding down Steve’s neck to broad shoulders and then down to his chest.  Without looking, his hands search out the buttons.  Steve’s hands are sliding up the back of Christian’s tshirt, pushing it up before his hands slide down to caress the top of his ass. 

Their shirts are half off when Steve is suddenly pulling the brunette out of the kitchen and then somehow up the stairs.  Christian is done with second guessing this and he’s pulling Steve as much as he’s being pulled.  He yanks his tshirt off as soon as he’s upstairs and then he’s plastering himself against the other man’s chest as they both struggle to get the fabric down Steve’s arms.  They can’t bear to be parted for a single more second, hot skin pressing together. 

Christian’s hands reach around and up to grip Steve’s shoulders from behind.  He’s feeling too overwhelmed to kiss decently anymore and he moves his lips across Steve’s cheek to his ear.  His breath is hot as he exhales and then he’s pulling the lobe into his mouth. 

Steve moans and Christian grins at the response, tugging the lobe now with teeth.  Hands skirt the edge of the cut as they slide up his back, holding him close for a moment, before working at the button of his jeans, knuckles brushing against his lower belly causing his abdominal muscles to jump and shudder. 

Fingertips brush inside the edge of Christian’s waistband, underneath his boxers.  Steve’s hands slide over the curve of his ass as they push the jeans down before sliding around to the front, pulling the elastic waistband over his hard cock. 

Christian’s mouth has moved down to the curve where pale neck becomes shoulder and one hand slips down around Steve’s waist, keeping them tightly together as he rocks despite the other man’s attempts at undressing them.  Steve gets the buttons of his jeans undone, but then he’s swinging Christian down onto the bed, shimmying off his pants while lying on top of the brunette. 

As soon as he’s naked, Christian immediately rolls them over.  Things slow down a little then as Christian rolls their hips together, a full body sinuous roll that gets even better when Steve helpfully opens his legs for Christian to get closer.  Like a cat begging for attention, Christian rubs himself against the trapped man.  Slowly he moves his hands to bracket Steve’s head, resting on his forearms, hands slowly carding through mussed blonde waves as their lips slide lazily together.  Thumbs rubbing circles on Steve’s temples, Christian doesn’t think about moving until Steve has to turn his face to the side to breathe.  And even then Christian’s lips continue moving slowly over the skin of Steve’s cheek. 

Steve’s hands are rubbing up and down Christian’s ribs before gripping his hipbones tightly.  The blonde moans low and gratified.  “I have lube,” he gasps. 

The words spark tension sitting low in his spine.  Christian wants it, so bad, but the idea of moving has anxiety clenching his muscles.  Steve seems to understand, turning on his side and moving with him as Christian grabs the lube from the bedside table, throwing a leg over Christian’s hip so that they stay together in a little cocoon of safety. 

He fumbles with the lube a little, it’s an odd angle to try to pour into his hand.  The first finger slides in easily.  It’s Christian who makes the louder pleasured sound, so turned on at the idea of finally having this, at how easy this is.  Steve’s distracting him, that sensitive spot that has his hips jerking and his muscles weakening. 

Steve chuckles indulgently before whispering directly into his ear, making Christian shudder.  “I’m ready, just plenty of lube.”

Furrowing his brow, Christian still takes the other man at his word.  His fingers are slippery on the condom wrapper, but as soon as he rolls it down, he’s pushing Steve over onto his back.  His knees push Steve’s thighs further up, opening the other man further and then he’s sinking in, sinking into Steve. 

Steve’s body opens readily, hands pushing aside the dark hair that’s come loose, reaching for his injured neck before fumbling instead for his shoulders.  Steve’s moaning in his ear but Christian’s breath is fast for another reason.  He feels overwhelmed, too much pleasure and anxiety, the strain of too much and not enough.  His heart is full to bursting, pressing again his rib cage like an overinflated balloon, but all he can think about is the fear of losing this.  He feels like Steve can’t possibly understand and through it all he just keeps thrusting, wanting to make it good for Steve. 

Christian’s weight is balanced on his forearms but Steve’s hand soon sneaks in the scant space between their bellies to rub at his own cock.  Christian grips onto muscular shoulders for leverage, rolling his hips up until Steve’s moans become choked. 

Steve comes readily with a harsh grunt and a scrunched face.  Christian fucks him through it, Steve’s other arm slung casually around his shoulder.  He hides his face down in the front dip of Steve’s shoulder.  He doesn’t know when his eyes began to fill with tears and he clings even more to Steve’s skin even as he tries to hide his emotions.  He keeps thrusting rhythmically, unable to find the brainpower to stop such a useless endeavor. 

Christian feels a sob shake his back and he presses his face harder into Steve’s skin.  The other man’s touch isn’t casually sensual now, it’s purposefully rubbing his back and that just makes Christian all the more upset.  It takes a while longer for his orgasm to flow over him with all the intensity of a whimper.  Shifting his hips to pull out, he just collapses down even more then, hiding his face still in Steve’s shoulder though he can’t make himself get off of the other man, not even to move to the side.    

He knows that he should get up, get away.  He’s so embarrassed, but then Steve’s arms are wrapped tight around him, holding him close.  So he just stays. 

Slowly, he notices other sensations, the rubber still barely holding onto his dick, the sweat drying between them, the ache of healing bruises all over.  But also he notices the feel of Steve’s arms, one tight around his lower back and the other rubbing between his shoulder blades and then up into his hair. 

“Well, fuck,” Christian says eloquently, the words coming out on a sigh, too exhausted to be riled up. 

“Hey,” Steve says, his voice comforting, breath hot against Christian’s hair line before his lips make contact.  It’s nothing so patronizing as a kiss to his temple, more of just a brush of skin. 

Christian waits for the words, for apologies and excuses.  He must be crushing the other man.  Steve must want to clean up or shower or something, but the silence just continues until Christian can’t take it anymore. 

“What do you want Steve?” he asks in resignation.  “Is this just a night to you?  Is this just because of what happened?”

Steve shifts, but his grip doesn’t weaken.  “No.  Why are you being a dick?”

“Because, you’ve never been interested before,” Christian snaps back.  “We’ve never…because we don’t fit.  You think you’re suddenly not going to be upset about how much I work or how I don’t have time to go to the studio?  And I’m not going to resent you for being able to do whatever you want?  You’re really not going to move on to someone else when I…I still need you?” the last part is a harsh whisper. 

“We’ve never tried,” Steve whispers.  “We were both too damn scared of coming second to a career.  We can find a way.  We can at least try.”

Christian doesn’t reply.  He doesn’t know what to say.  He doesn’t answer so long that he’s almost dozing off when a noise startles him into wakefulness and fear.

“Did you hear that?” he asks Steve. 

Steve stirs like he might have been half-asleep himself.  “What? No,” he answers.  “I didn’t hear anything. 

Christian is already sitting up, so fast that he doesn’t have time to regret losing Steve’s heat and comfort.  His focus is elsewhere and practically forgotten Steve until he feels the soft touch to his chest. 

“Christian, what’s wrong?” Steve says and Christian hates the concerned, gentle look on the blonde’s face. 

Christian’s face crumpled in shame, unsure what to say.  “I heard something,” he tries to explain.  Whatever sound he thinks he heard is long gone and he knows that there is nothing wrong.  That man is dead.  But the idea is in his head now, obsessively circling and he has to look, has to check, _has to_.  “I just…I have to check.  I’m sorry,” he says as he finally lifts his weight off of Steve.

Pulling on his boxers, he’s moving towards the door of the closet that he just has to open when he feels Steve lay a hand on his shoulder.  He ducks his head, ashamed, even as he flings open the closet door. 

“I’ll help you,” Steve offers. 

It’s still embarrassing, as they walk from room to room, but Christian’s fear is the stronger emotion.  Christian stops himself from questioning Steve about things not being where he remembers.  He knows that it’s all in his head, but he can’t help it.  He doesn’t want the other man to know how crazy he is, but he can’t stop himself from speculatively picking up a couple items himself while carefully keeping his eyes away.  Steve is trying so damn hard to act like none of this is strange at all.  The blonde is looking around like he’s actually _looking_ for clues. 

The kitchen is last and when Christian sees the remnants of his lemon reamer, broken now in large pieces, he can’t look anymore.  Irritated with himself, he pulls Steve out of the room, dragging Steve back upstairs and away from his foolishness.  But as soon as they’re upstairs, Steve is catching up with him, pushing him back onto the bed. 

“I’m sorry,” Christian says even as Steve is tumbling into the bed beside him.  Christian just lies there, his frown is almost comically large on his face.  He’s just confused by how Steve hasn’t backed off once this whole night.  Is it just a fluke or is it real?

“Don’t be sorry,” Steve whispers, his voice still comfortable and deep as his hands grab at the other man sleepily. 

But Christian isn’t placated this time.  “Maybe I should sleep place else.  I…I have nightmares.  I might…need to get up again.”

“Then we’ll get up again,” Steve says, unconcerned as always and succeeding in pulling Christian to lie on top of him.  “I know what you’re doing, and just…don’t.”

Steve sounds half asleep already, but he keeps talking.  His hand comes up to rub through Christian’s long sweaty hair.  “You must be so tired.  Just sleep.”

Christian sighs loudly and thinks about telling Steve to fuck off but now that it’s mentioned, he does feel tired, the repair of his body and his fear and the emotional release and sex all catching up with him.  He’s asleep before he can get his mouth to work.   

************

He wakes to a thumping sound, though it takes him a long time to realize that’s it’s the sound of knocking.  It’s coming from his front door.  Christian groans, sitting up and feeling the full force of sunlight on his face.  He can’t believe he slept this long. 

His hair feels disgusting when he pulls it back into a pony tail and then steals another of Steve’s bandanas.  He brushes his teeth but doesn’t bother to get dressed besides a pair of pajama pants and heads down the stairs still in his bare feet.  Steve must have let the person in because he can hear people talking in the kitchen.  He stops when he realizes that it’s Jeff.    

“Isn’t it against some kind of rule, fraternizing with the victims of your cases?” a male voice says that Christian immediately recognizes as Steve.  “It seems a little…abusive?”

 “I’m not the one jerking him around,” that’s Jeff’s low growl answering. 

“I’m not jerking him around,” Steve says, definitely angry. 

“Really?  He’s in love with you, but you’re only now paying him attention.  He needs support not someone who will drop him when things get hard,” Jeff says. 

“I’ve been in love with _him_ forever,” Steve snaps, breathing hard. 

Christian stops breathing at the words, standing stock just outside the doorway of his kitchen.  He’s still stuck there when Steve comes flying out of the room.  The blonde almost stumbles at the sight of him, surprised, shock, and hurt flitting across his face.  Jeff comes into view too, walking slow and not looking surprised at all to see him lurking in the hallway.  Those deep brown eyes looks resigned, and sad. 

Christian swallows hard, looking from one to the other.  It didn’t occur to him until just this moment what he’s done by sleeping with them both.  He doesn’t want to hurt either of them, it didn’t occur to him that there was a future to either relationship.  It’s still hard to believe that either man likes him enough to say those things.  

After the long silence, Steve suddenly jerks his face away, already taking a step towards the door.  “Look, Chris,” he says with his eyes still averted.  “Maybe you should take some time, think about what you really want.”

He’s gone before Christian has thought of a single thing to say.  Christian falls against his door jam like his strings have been cut, his head bowed.  He’s lost both of them probably. 

But then Jeff is squeezing his arms and pulling him up to standing.  He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t even know if Jeff still wants him or if he still wants Jeff.  But he does appreciate Jeff’s warmth and touch as he’s pulled into the kitchen and pushed into a seat.  He’s just staring dumbly down at the tabletop when there’s a glass of milk put in front of him. 

“I doubt caffeine is what you need right now,” Jeff says, sitting in the chair next to him and pulling it closer.  “How’s the sleeping?”

Christian shakes his head sharply once and doesn’t look up.  Jeff sighs in response.  And then his hand is on the back of Christian’s head, stroking over the soft hair.  Christian inexplicably feels like crying again, the lines around his eyes deepening. 

“Hey, now,” Jeff says gently.  “Look, it’s obvious that I like you, a lot.  And I know that you like me.  You like that I know what you’re going through.”

Jeff pauses then with a small smile on his face, dimples just barely showing.  “But I see the way that you look at him.  Maybe he won’t be at all what you need.  Maybe you two just aren’t right for each other.  But that’s something you need to find out.”

He kisses Christian then, his temple, the jut of his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth and then Christian is turning into the kiss, opening his mouth.  He wants to just sink into Jeff, climb on the older man’s lap and lose himself in lust.  But that wouldn’t be fair to anyone. 

He pulls back, keeping his eyes closed as if he can keep this moment and not have to face what comes next.  When he finally looks, Jeff is smiling at him with dimples in full force. 

“I should go back,” Jeff says.  “But please, call if you need anything.  Call if you don’t need anything, just…stay in touch.”

Christian doesn’t move as Jeff walks away.  He stays put thinking over exactly what it is that he should do. 

It takes him the rest of the day to decide.  He knows that Jeff is right.  Steve may not be what he needs, and it’s going to hurt if that’s the case, especially after all this.  But he can’t go back now. 

Yeah, it seems like Steve has changed, but what if that’s not the case.  What if Jeff’s accusation was correct and Steve is going to change his mind.  It’s not as if Steve hasn’t ever done that before. 

But as he thinks over the ways that he hopes that Steve will change, Christian begins to remember some other things.  He remembers when Tim told him that he’d need to take control of his own life, to do what _he_ wants.  Maybe he needs to create more time himself.  Maybe it’s not just about what Steve needs to change. 

His dad will always be his dad.  His Dad is always going to complain, to butt in, to think that he’s still in charge of the business.  But if Christian is going to be in charge, then he’s going to have to take control.  He’s never going to do everything exactly the same as his Dad, maybe the farm isn’t meant to be his whole life, and maybe that’s ok.  And his Dad will always think that his way is best.  But Christian has to do it his way. 

The one thing that’s certain is that both of them are going to have to work at it.  Both of them are going to have to change, to adapt, to fit in each other’s lives.  They’ve both been so caught up in their professional existences that they were too scared to have something serious, too scared of having to compromise. 

That night he checks the whole house, but it doesn’t feel the same as when he did it with Steve.  It doesn’t feel as safe.  Someone must have cleaned up the broken reamer and he’s momentarily disappointed that he’ll never see it again but he appreciates the gesture.  He’s able to go back in his bedroom alone, but he spends most of the night awake and restless, getting up multiple times. 

The next morning, he takes a shower, taking a little bit more time to look decent.  He’s going to need to do laundry soon, he thinks inanely as he tries on a second shirt.  Then finally, finally, he gets into his truck and drives into town.  Steve should be off work by now. 

He walks into Steve’s house without knocking.  He does it purposefully because he doesn’t want that to be one of the things that changes between them.  Steve is surprisingly already home and dressed in his rattiest clothes like he didn’t go out at all. 

Steve’s sitting on the floor of his den, newspaper and glue in between his spread eagle legs and it takes a moment for Christian to realize what Steve is working on.  It’s the lemon reamer.  Steve’s gluing it back together. 

Steve keeps his face as neutral as possible.  “You may not want to see it ever again, but I thought…well, I thought it’d be a shame if it was just because you were angry.”  Steve shrugs as if casual.

“I’m sorry,” Christian blurts out, overwhelmed by the gesture.  “I’m sorry that I was angry, I’m sorry that I’m scared, I’m sorry…about Jeff,” he whispers as if he’s being strangled again. 

“Don’t apologize,” Steve says getting up off of the ground.  “Jesus, don’t apologize for any of that,” Steve insists as he grabs Christian in a hug.  “This mess was supposed to be,” Steve laughs a little at himself before continuing, “it’s supposed to show that I love you, even broken, all of the little pieces.”

Steve is smiling as he pulls back and Christian can’t help laughing at little at the corny romantic notions and then Steve’s hands are hot on his face and they’re both smiling and laughing as they kiss.  It’s so like _them_. 

“I did a lot of thinking,” Christian starts as he pulls back though Steve doesn’t let him get far.  “I know that things need to change, that I need to change too, that…”

Steve surges up to take his mouth again.  His arms are tight like bands of iron around Christian and the brunette can’t say how good it feels, how safe. 

“It can wait,” Steve whispers against his mouth.  “I don’t want you to change.”

*********

_Six Months Later_

Christian’s alarm goes off so early that it’s still dark.  He punches it quickly, not wanting it to wake Steve who stirs sleepily anyway, throwing an arm over Christian’s back as if to keep him here.  Not that Christian really wanted to leave the man’s warmth. 

He can’t help stalling a minute and thinking over the last six months.  They’ve had their ups and downs.  It was hard for Christian to admit how much the fear had taken over his life, but it was impossible to hide with Steve there all the time.  Steve helped him get over some of it, coming with him the next time he entered the barn, talking to him through it all, until Christian could see the barn every time he walked in and not that cellar. 

Some things were even harder.  It was hard, as predicted, for Steve to get used to Christian’s schedule, getting up early.  It was hard to realize that just because they were living together didn’t mean that Christian really had more time to spend on the music.  Still, Christian started to make more time, giving more responsibility to new hires, while still taking control from his father. 

The worst part was agreeing on where to live.  Christian never could stand to be in his own house again, but Steve’s place was just too far from the farm.  They’ve just bought this new house, halfway between town and the farm.   So Christian supposes it’s serious.  He still has bad days when the panic crawls up his throat to choke him at the strangest moments, when the guilt makes him want to cry, but it’s getting better. 

Half asleep and caught in his meandering thoughts, Christian doesn’t notice Steve moving until slick fingers probing between his asscheeks.  Christian’s relaxed and two fingers force their way in even as Steve’s weight lands more fully on top of him, one arm winding underneath his throat.  He doesn’t bother moving at all as Steve positions his knees outside Christian’s own. 

Steve plunges in without preamble, taking advantage of Christian’s sleepy relaxation.  Sleepily, the brunette does arch his back, lifting his hips off the mattress into Steve’s slow thrusts.  Just as slowly, Christian lifts his head, stretching his neck back to look up at the other man, angling for a kiss. 

Obligingly, Steve cups the stubbled cheek and leans down for a slow, wet kiss.  Long calloused fingers play over Christian’s throat as his thrusts get harder, knocking the air out of Christian’s lungs.  The tanned body is stretched taut like a guitar string. 

Then Steve slides his arm out from under the other man, moving his hands to Christian’s shoulder blades, pressing the other man down into the sheets and following him there.  They’re connected bodily, only Steve’s hips moving constantly, plunging deeper.  The heat between their bodies quickly becomes stifling but neither man minds.  One hand goes to Christian’s hip, pulling his ass up. 

Their hands meet on Christian’s cock and it’s just a frenzied humping, their flesh slapping together carelessly.  It doesn’t take them long to cum then, though Steve makes sure to wait until after Christian and then he’s lifting himself up further, thrusting harder and faster.

As soon as Steve removes the condom, he collapses down onto Christian’s sweaty back, readily nuzzling into Christian’s sweaty nape, pushing aside curly dark hair.  Christian makes a mumbling, happy sound, reveling in Steve’s affectionate nature.  It makes Christian reconsider being late 


End file.
